Take The Long Way Home
by jenron12
Summary: Set pre-series, this is a story of friendship, trust, heartache, and - eventually - love. In other words, it's a take on how Cal Lightman and Gillian Foster came to be "Cal & Gillian." Chapter 45 now posted. Thanks for reading!
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: This will be a multi-chapter Cal and Gillian story that is set pre-series and eventually follows the timeline of the show. Several of the chapters will feature characters that I've never written before, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I can make it believable and entertaining, and that you will enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. **_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own LTM* or any of its characters – I'm only borrowing them for a little while, just for fun. **_

_**(**And fair warning, guys – there's an F-bomb or two in chapter one. I promise they won't pop up often, though.)**_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

He really should have seen it coming. He should have taken one look at those suitcases – three of them, lined up in a neat little row across their bed – and realized that the threats she'd grown oh-so-fond of making were no longer empty, and that his entire world was about to change. Clothing, jewelry, shoes… everything she owned was swiftly making its way out of her drawers and out of her closet and into the luggage they'd purchased together so very long ago.

And if he'd bothered look past the reaction in her _face_ and listened to words that were spewing out of her _mouth – _allrapid-fire and hateful, and laced with absolute venom – then he would have known instantly that the worst possible decision he could've made in that moment was to simply sit there in silence.

But that's exactly what he did.

Words had never been his strong suit, after all. He read faces… muscles… tiny, miniscule movements that were involuntary and universal and scientific, and she bloody well _knew_ that. She _did_. And she should have expected nothing less.

To that end, he kept his expression neutral and let his eyes track her movements – from the dresser to the suitcase and back, over and over again. He was cataloguing… studying… trying to decide if the remorse he could so easily read on her face was because she was leaving him _now_, or because she hadn't done it ages ago.

Maybe it was a little bit of both.

Cal wasn't sure how many moments had passed since he walked into the room and found her like that, but when she finally stilled herself long enough to notice him standing there, her expression shifted into complete hostility and he instantly steeled himself for the implication he knew would come again. It was the same one she'd made hours earlier… the same one she'd made every single day for the last six months. By this point, the entire charade was totally predictable and he'd long since grown tired of defending himself.

Wasn't much point left to it, really. Not now.

"Stop reading me, Cal," she shouted. "You _know_ that drives me completely insane. I'm a person, alright? A _real_ person, with _real_ feelings, and if you'd ever bothered to take your head out of your ass long enough to pay attention to the fact that _I_ am your wife and that… that… _she_ is _someone else's_ wife, maybe then you'd realize just how far out of line things have gotten. Maybe _then_ you'd realize that what you said to me this evening was just about the _worst possible thing_ I could hear, short of you admitting that you've already fucked her."

And there it was, right on cue. Funny… the thing that bothered him the most about her little tirade wasn't he accusation that he'd "fucked" Foster _(he hadn't);_ it was the fact that Zoe Landau hated Gillian Foster so badly that she couldn't even bring herself to say the woman's name.

And for what? Foster had never done anything wrong. She'd been a wonderful friend, an excellent business partner, and a bigger support system (both personally _and_ professionally) than he probably deserved. And it was downright hypocritical for Zoe to stand there lecturing _anyone_ about the disadvantages of hiding one's head in one's ass.

No, this was the same old Zoe, playing the same old game. The implication still hurt, of course, but there were only so many times a man could listen to his wife call him a cheating bastard before he started to tune it out a bit. Desensitization, Foster would probably call it.

Zoe was on suitcase number three by the time she looked over at him again. She'd filled the first two and propped up against the wall between them as a makeshift barricade, and just when he thought they might've reached an impasse – that she might've actually begun to calm down a bit – the tiny, relieved smile he tossed her set everything right back into motion.

Changing tactics, Zoe opted for direct hostility, rather than implications and innuendo. "I know you've spent the night there, Cal," she seethed, tapping one high-heeled shoe to emphasize every other word. "It's been… what? _Three_ times already? So do us both a favor and don't even _try_ to deny it."

Truth be told, that _did_ make him sound like a right wanker – as if he'd been off enjoying the company of his very beautiful, very _married_ business partner while his poor, dejected wife sat home alone.

But the flip side of that argument – the one that Zoe was being oh-so careful to ignore – was that he had only fled to Gillian's when he'd grown _so bloody sick_ of the shouting and the hostility and the full blown _drama_ of his own marriage that it was either escape or go completely insane. And besides… he knew exactly what it felt like to grow up in a household filled with anger. The last thing he wanted to do was lead Emily through the same process.

Doing his best to remain calm, Cal ran his hands through his hair and carefully sat down on the edge of their bed. He was positioned between Zoe and the doorway, so that she had to pass right in front of him to leave the room, and it took a mere ten short seconds before he watched her eyes track the pathway her body already wanted to take. That simple motion rattled him – made each of the hairs on the back of his neck stand at full alert – and without even meaning to do so, Cal slipped right back into his old habits.

Passive aggressive confrontation, Foster would've called it. He'd mastered it long ago.

"Wasn't trying to deny it, love," he shrugged. He was fully aware that his words were laced with arrogance and narcissism, but he'd completely lost the ability to care. "But that little spin you're putting on it? The one that convinces you I've done the horizontal tango with Foster right under her husband's nose? Complete and utter crap, that is. And we _both_ know it."

Instantly, Zoe scoffed. "Is that so?" she said, hands on her hips and eyes alight with renewed fire as she glared at him. "Alright then, fine. I'll tell you something else we _both_ know. We _both_ know that it's _her_ face you see behind your eyes at night, and that it's _her_ name that trips off the end of your tongue when you collapse into _our_ bed. Hell, her idiot husband probably knows it too, unless he's just choosing to be as pathetically blind as I've been for the last few years."

Surprised to hear her deviate from her 'script' by bringing Alex Foster into the mix for the first time since the infidelity accusations began flying months ago, Cal cocked his head to the side and stared at Zoe with open curiosity. And even though he knew things between them were quickly reaching 'train wreck' territory, he couldn't keep his eyes off her facial muscles long enough to think of anything constructive to say. Anger, frustration, sadness, regret, and _there_… _right there_, in such a fleeting flash that he almost missed it entirely… was guilt.

_Where the hell had that come from?_

Zoe's ridiculously loud sigh broke his concentration, and her posture instantly became as defensive as her tone of voice. "What is it you're looking for, anyway?" she asked harshly. "Do you think you'll find a different answer in my eyebrows, or my cheekbones, or my jaw muscles besides the one that's coming out of my actual _mouth_? The one that's telling you – for the third time this evening, no less – that whatever we had between us just isn't worth fighting for anymore?"

Hours later, when the clarity of scotch-fueled hindsight finally kicked in and he had time to remember it properly, Cal would realize what a giant plonker he was by responding to her outburst with humor, rather than sincerity. He'd realize that he should have called her on the guilt he'd seen, or thrown out accusations of his own… anything – _anything_ – other than crack a joke. But in the heat of the moment, he couldn't seem to stop himself from sounding like an arrogant jerk.

Again.

"Actually, love, you've only said it twice. I've been counting. It's basic math, Zo. And maybe if you spent as much time looking over elementary school homework with our daughter as Foster and I do, then you'd have a chance to brush up on your skills, yeah?"

_Three… two… one… _

In a flash, Zoe's right hand connected with his left cheek, hard enough to draw tears to his eyes but not quite hard enough to make them fall. It wasn't the first time she'd slapped him, but it was the first time he felt as though he might've actually deserved it.

_Maybe_.

Zoe looked down at her fingertips with a blank expression, and then Cal heard all the breath leave her body in one long, exaggerated puff. "Does she hate this side of you as much as I do?" she asked tiredly. "The side that's always so hell-bent on pushing everyone away? It's just… it's just _exhausting_, you know? I've watched it happen, time and time again. I've _lived through it_, time and time again. It's called 'Fight or Flight, and it _is_ a choice. The problem is… you keep making the wrong one."

Without a second thought, he snorted at her. "Hypocritical much, love?" he spat. Because seriously, she had _no right _to place all the blame on him. No right at all. Not when _she_ was the one tossing the entire contents of her closet into overstuffed suitcases and running away.

"Looks to me like you're the one making this choice, yeah?" he continued. "_You're_ the one who decided to give up. To _stop_ fighting."

Not expecting her to find an answer so quickly, Cal was visibly surprised when the brunt of her anger hit him only a microsecond later. "No, you made that choice for both of us earlier today, when you looked me dead in the eye and told me that _your business partner_ would make a better mother than I've ever been, hands down. And that if Emily had the privilege of growing up under Gillian's care and not mine, that she never would've been forced to – and I quote – '_play second fiddle to a law career or spend her free time getting used as a pawn between parents who probably shouldn't have gotten married in the first place_.'"

Monologue finished, Zoe didn't even try to hide the happiness she felt at watching Cal wince at the sound of his own words. Granted, she'd paraphrased it a bit… added in a few extra details… but the gist of it was still the same, and hearing it parroted back at him made him feel about two inches tall.

Yes, he'd said it.

He'd _said_ it, and he'd _meant_ it, and Zoe had every right to be angry with him. She had every right to slap him, and every right to leave.

And maybe…

Maybe that's why he'd done it in the first place.

Maybe it was easier to push her away than to fight for something that could no longer be saved. Fall on his sword, so to speak, rather than face rejection.

A decent man would've apologized. He knew that. But Cal Lightman had never been fond of choosing the path of least resistance, and he wasn't about to start doing it then. He was well aware that the 'bad mother' angle had hit Zoe below the belt, but in the heat of the moment he'd _wanted_ to hurt her just as much as she'd hurt _him_.

No doubt he was a selfish bastard, but he'd always been faithful. _Always_. Infidelity was a dangerous game, and with two marriages at stake, it was one he'd _never_ had any intention of playing.

And to that end, his tone was full of arrogance when he looked her straight in the eye and said, "Bit of advice, Zoe? If you're going to take the words right out of my mouth, it would be a lot more entertaining for both of us if you used the accent, too."

He'd fully expected her to slap him again, but she didn't. Instead, she locked her hands on her hips and matched his icy stare with one of her own. "Mark my words, one day your precious little '_Foster'_ is going to look past the bullshit and the credentials and see the _real_ you. The half-broken shell of a man with a lifetime's worth of baggage, who hides behind his science because he's never trusted anyone, and he probably never will. And when she does see it, Cal – when she _finally_ does – that woman will walk away from you without a second thought."

It was solely out of habit that he sighed, dropped his head into his hands and said – without so much as a drop of emotion in his voice – "Gillian and I are just friends, Zo. We are friends and business partners, and nothing else."

A beat later, when the silence that had fallen between them began to rattle his sanity, and the sadness he _should_ have been feeling all along began to seep in around the edges, bit by bit, Cal stole one last glance at Zoe's face and was shaken by the pity he found there. Before he could question it, though, she stepped forward and pressed her wedding ring into the palm of his hand.

Her voice was perfectly composed, but the soft words she spoke in his ear were unashamedly cruel. "She'll leave you, Cal. Just like your mother did… just like I'm doing… and just like Emily will."

And that's when it hit him.

_That's_ when it hit him.

Burgeoning sadness gave way to raw panic at the single mention of Emily's name, as the full weight of what was about to change between them finally became clear. Fisting her ring in his left hand, Cal caught Zoe's wrist with his right just as she went to step away from him. "Please don't do this, Zoe," he implored. "Don't make it harder than it needs to be, yeah? For Emily's sake, and for mine."

Carefully pulling her arm out of his grasp, she wheeled the last of her suitcases into the hallway and paused at the top of the staircase to turn back toward him one last time. She spoke only five short words, but the utter hatred he heard in her voice made him instantly nauseous.

"I'll see you in court."

* * *

**To Be Continued…**


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Thank you all for the lovely reviews, they are very much appreciated! **_

* * *

The first call came when he was halfway through his first scotch – when he was still sober enough to feel the pull in his chest that told him maybe, _just maybe_, it was her. Maybe she realized they'd both gone too far this time – that they'd both made mistakes and said horrible, hurtful things.

Maybe it was all still fixable.

Frowning at the phone, he took a final pull from his glass and answered on the fourth ring. "Yeah?"

That was all he could muster. No apology and no explanation – just a single, solitary syllable, and even that much was a struggle. Words were difficult enough for him when he was sober, and they were damned near impossible when he felt like… _this_. Like his entire world had been turned upside down and shaken.

The last thing he wanted to do was fight with her again, when the sting of her handprint was still fresh against his cheek and the thought of a custody battle still shook him to the core. Hindsight told him that he should move forward, not back. Sweep up the messes they'd made and try again. Together. They owed Emily that much.

Trouble was, he couldn't find a way to _say_ all of that without sounding like a pathetic arse.

Finally, when he'd grown to hate the silence between them even more than he'd expected and his grip on the phone began to grow painful, he sighed heavily and spoke the first words that popped into his head. "Listen, Zo, I don't want to…"

And that was as far as Cal got before he realized his mistake. The second half of his sentence died in his head, because Zoe Landau did 'passive' about as well as he did, and she would've jumped in with both feet as soon as the first word left his lips. They were equally stubborn and equally passionate, after all, and they both cared about being "_right_" much more often than they'd ever cared about being "_happy_."

The sudden clarity made him want to wretch.

"Cal?"

That single, timid word confirmed each of his suspicions, and at the sound of it, he dropped his head into his hand. His next thought – aside from the awkward mix of guilt and relief he felt at hearing the sound of _Gillian's_ voice on the line, not Zoe's – was that he wasn't sober enough to have this conversation. He didn't want anyone to hear him like this; pathetic and sunken and sad, and feeling completely out of control when, by all rights, he really ought to have a say in something.

Emily was _his_ daughter.

This was _his_ life.

What gave Zoe the right to choose a future for both of them?

"I stopped by your house to drop off a few files," she offered, "and… Zoe was there."

_Christ_.

Cal sighed again, as he felt his stomach drop the rest of the way down into his boots and his imagination did a play-by-play of what _that_ conversation must've been like. Or rather, what it would have been like for _Gillian_ to be on the _receiving end_ of that conversation – one sided as he knew it probably was – and politely listen to Zoe tell her what a no good, rotten bastard he was. Probably did a little dance of joy just to be rid of him, she did, then played the blame game with Foster just for old times' sake.

What a pathetic mess.

Another heavy sigh prompted Gillian to speak again, and when she did, the tone of her voice was so quiet and calming that it made him shudder involuntarily. "I just thought you could use a friend."

And really, what could he say to that? It was typical Foster, cutting right to the heart of the matter with just a few short words. _Of course_ he needed a friend.

Problem was, he didn't _want_ to need anyone.

He didn't want to need _her_.

Cal had grown accustomed to blocking his feelings – _all_ of his feelings. He had years of practice at hiding them behind self-imposed walls and so much regret, and now that they'd all been yanked to the surface, he felt unbalanced. Dizzy. Dozens of random questions filtered in and out of his thoughts, all demanding answers he hadn't found yet.

What would happen next?

How would they make this work?

What was he supposed to _do_, anyway? There was a very real part of him that still loved her - was he just supposed to flip a switch and turn it all… _off_… just because Zoe changed her mind?

Through the receiver, Gillian's breath was whisper quiet against his ear. He heard four measured beats… four counts of 'in through the nose and out through the mouth' and wondered if she was doing it on purpose. If she was trying to out-wait him, or if it was part of a bigger plan - maybe like one of those _'Dummies'_ books that were all the rage. Seems they made those things for everything: _Cooking For Dummies… Taxes For Dummies… Pet Care For Dummies_. Maybe Gillian had found one for this situation, too. 'Caring For Your Soon-to-Be Divorced, Semi-Drunken Business Partner For Dummies.'

'_Pathetic'_ barely even scratched the surface.

"I can hear you thinking, but I think we both might feel better if you tried talking to me instead," she tried.

Now that was funny. That was _very_ funny. And without thinking, Cal snorted right into her ear – making a cross between a laugh, a cry, and a guffaw. It sounded ridiculous, but the sheer release of it made him feel better. Ridiculous fit the moment well, actually.

"Well now isn't that rich," he said, making the noise again. "Such a contradiction between the women in my life, Foster. The one who is, technically, still married to me doesn't want to be in the same zip code long enough to listen to a single word I'd like to say, and the one who is married to _someone_ _else_ calls me up at a bar and wants to poke around inside my head and make everything all better. _Another man's wife_ wants to "fix" me, and my own would be perfectly happy to perform a public castration and serve my mangled bits and pieces at her next dinner party."

Rich, indeed.

The tiny part of Cal's brain that was still unaffected by the scotch and heartbreak began to rebel against him for being, without question, the world's biggest jackass. Gillian Foster hadn't done anything wrong – not a single thing – and there he went taking out his pain on her, just because it was convenient. Just because he _could_.

Just because he trusted her.

'_Take that, Zoe_,' he wanted to shout. '_See? I _do_ trust someone_.'

In his ear, Foster gave a tiny sigh and he could practically hear the hurt echo through the phone line. Had they been together, face to face, he would've been able to see it in her eyes from twenty yards away. "Feel better now?" she asked.

The grip on his phone was the only thing keeping Cal tethered to reality, and even though he knew he should apologize, he couldn't bring himself to do it. She meant well. He knew that. And Gillian Foster was, quite frankly, the only true friend he had in the entire world; mucking things up with her would be downright idiotic, both personally and professionally. But instead of telling her any of that – instead of thanking her for her friendship and her concern – he simply sat there in semi-drunken silence, half wishing she'd just get it over with hang up on him already, and half wishing she wouldn't.

There didn't seem to be a right choice anymore. And even if there was, he was too tired to make it.

Finally daring to break the silence he'd created, Foster cleared her throat and spoke his name as calmly as she could. "Cal…"

It sounded like she was trying to talk him off of a ledge (which was fitting, in a way), and he knew _exactly_ what was coming next. He bloody _knew_ she was about to hand him the pity he didn't want, and the comfort he probably shouldn't accept.

"Listen, Cal, maybe you should…"

Bloody hell, that was such a horrible word.

_Maybe_.

Nails on a chalkboard, it was. He hadn't realized how much he loathed it until then. Until he heard it tangled around Foster's sweet voice and felt the punch of it hit him squarely in the gut.

Without giving it a second thought, and without giving her a chance to finish her sentence, Cal lifted his empty glass and signaled the bartender to bring him another round.

"I hate that word, Foster," he said.

And then he ended the call.

* * *

By the time he made it to his third scotch, his phone lay in a half dozen pieces at his fingertips. Foster was relentless, and no matter how many times he hit "ignore," she simply waited a few minutes and tried again. Had he been completely sober, he would've just turned the damned thing off or put it on silent. But as it was, it had taken less than an hour before he'd smashed it against the wall with a grunting heave, only to fall on his ass when he went to retrieve it.

Salt in the wound. Zoe would've loved that.

Back on his stool, Cal turned sullen and introspective. Though he looked mostly fine on the outside (broken phone notwithstanding), on the _inside_, he was fighting a veritable shit storm. He felt out of control and hopeless – like a wounded, cornered animal just looking for an escape. And so he scoffed at the random offers to "call someone" for him, because really… there was no point. There was no one to call except Foster, and he didn't want her help or her pity. Didn't want her to see him like this. A broken man.

With the benefit of hindsight kicking in, and reality somewhat morphed by the buzz of inebriation, Cal felt the full blunt of responsibility land squarely in his lap. Most of this truly _was_ his fault, yeah? A man who wanted to save his marriage – a man who actually cared about his wife – wouldn't do something insanely idiotic like calling her a bad mother, and then use the next breath to point out one specific woman who would've done a much better job with their daughter. And no, he hadn't _needed_ the alcohol to tell him he was a worthless piece of shit (_because Zoe had done a fine job of that herself_), but at least it dulled the pain.

If he'd just taken her advice and spent a bit _more_ time on their marriage and a bit _less_ time on his science (_and a bit less time studying the maternal instincts of other women)_ then maybe…

_Maybe…_

The mere _thought_ of that word made everything worse again, and he felt internal tension squeeze itself around his chest like a vice. Just as he'd told Foster, he hated that bloody word. Hated the empty promises it carried… resented the weight of it hanging over his head like a spotlight, just ready to announce that he'd failed. He was angry and depressed and resentful, and so _God damned_ brokenhearted that he barely knew which end was up, and which was down – thanks in part to the scotch, but mostly to his own regret.

He was expert in human behavior, alright. But this? Moving on from this?

He didn't have a clue what came next.

* * *

"I tried to call you."

He scoffed, waving his hand in a wild, exaggerated circle that bordered on rudeness, trying to warn her away. "Didn't hear it," he lied.

In his periphery, he saw her maneuver herself onto the stool beside his. Couldn't say as though he was surprised, because if their positions had been reversed, he would've likely done the same thing.

"Funny thing about cell phones," she teased. She pointed down at the broken pile of electronic bits near his glass with the barest of smiles, then added, "hard to hear them when they're smashed to pieces."

Cal shrugged. "Wasn't much in the mood for talking, Foster."

He heard, rather than saw, her relief at the fact that he sounded at least somewhat lucid and that aside from the bruised ego and the busted phone, he was still in one piece. "Alright, we don't have to talk, then. We can just…"

"Drink?" he interrupted, flagging down the bartender before the latter half of the word left his lips.

Foster groaned. "Oh, no you don't," she insisted. Her tone was gentle, but she made the mistake of letting one soft hand land on his arm as she reached for his glass, and he pulled away from her as if he'd been burned.

_Full-on wanker mode, in three… two… one…_

Cal scowled at her, covering his glass protectively, lest she try to take it again. "Wasn't finished yet, love. In case you missed the memo, _I_ am grown man. And I don't need your permission, yeah? Not for anything. If I want another _bloody_ scotch, I'll _bloody_ well have it, and if you don't like it, well then… there's the _bloody_ door."

She bit back a laugh and rolled her eyes at him, clearly unimpressed with his latest display of ego. "Is that so?"

"Bloody right, it is," he said stubbornly. And then when he finally noticed her reaction – when he finally realized that she'd had to clamp her hand over her mouth just to keep from giggling aloud at him, his demeanor changed again. Instead of being protective and reeling away from her touch, he moved toward her. Right into her space, trying to use intimidation to cover his embarrassment.

Had he been completely sober, Cal would've realized that he was wasting his energy, because Gillian Foster was all too familiar with his tendency to invade. Intimidation didn't work on her.

"'S'funny, is it?" he said, turning his body so that it squared up with hers and then edging closer until their noses were only inches apart. Then he pointed his index finger at her and circled it, accusingly. "My whole night has turned into a shit storm of bloody… _whatever_… and you sit here having a good laugh about it? A mean one, you are. Here's a good idea, yeah? I'll lay down right here and you can just start kicking, alright? Hard as you want, right in the bloody balls."

A gentle hand fell on his arm and when he finally looked into her eyes, a smile reached them. "You Brits really do like that word, don't you?" she asked with a grin.

He blinked at her, wishing she hadn't touched him and wishing that it didn't make him feel… that way. In the back of his mind, he knew she was trying to distract him. Trying to make a joke out of something he hadn't even realize he'd said. But he was too foggy to care, and too distracted by her fingertips, so he took the bait. "What word? Balls?" he said blankly.

She laughed openly, not bothering to cover the sound. "Not _balls_, Cal. Jesus, you're such a _man_," she said, rolling her eyes at him as she did so. "I meant 'bloody.' Six times in less than two minutes… that's got to be some kind of record."

Cal's eyes narrowed in annoyance even as a grin threatened to pull his lips upward against his will. A veritable contradiction, he was. He didn't like it one bit. "You tryin' to distract me, Foster?" he asked.

"Maybe," Gillian conceded. Then she pulled enough cash from her pocket to (_hopefully_) cover his tab, and waited until he glanced away from her to pass it down the bar. "Is it working?"

With his eyes still diverted, he gave a tired sigh and slumped against the counter just a fraction further. "No, it bloody isn't. But I appreciate the effort. You're a good friend."

When she didn't reply - mostly because she was too distracted by the logistics of what she needed to do next in order to get him out the door – Cal took her silence as a form of rejection. He let loose with a self-depreciating laugh and looked at her with wounded eyes. "God knows I don't deserve it, love. Your friendship _or_ your support. World class fuck up, I am. So it's best to run while you can, yeah? Seems I have a tendency to… _taint_ everything."

It was the look on his face that made her falter; made her wonder just how many times Zoe had spoken those exact words to him and used the loopholes of his own insecurity to make him believe them. It was downright cruel. And since Gillian Foster had no intention of running anywhere – much less away from one of the only stable things in her life – it was all she could do not to lean forward and hug him; to wrap her arms around his body and reassure him that he was a good person, and a good _man_, and a good friend.

That everything would be fine.

That they would get through it together, and come out stronger on the other side.

But… she didn't.

She hesitated just the briefest second – still caught up in indecision as she tried to determine what she could do (_wives of men with burgeoning political careers ought not to be seen hugging drunken men in darkened bars, of course_), and that tiny opening gave Cal even more room to doubt her. "I'm serious, Foster. The coast is clear. No strings attached, yeah? Feel free to leave, and I promise I won't take it personally."

As soon as the last word left his lips, Gillian was on her feet. To hell with the unwritten 'wife code' and to hell with the implications. Cal Lightman was her friend – her best friend – and she could not leave him. Not like that. And so before he realized what she was doing and why she was moving him around, she propped his arm around her shoulders and tugged until they both stood side by side.

"Just for the record, Cal?" she said. "I have no intention of running anywhere. Not now, and not ever."

He blinked at her – slowly and steadily, as if it took a few extra minutes for the words to fight their way through the fog and into his scotch-addled brain, and when they finally did… when he finally looked down and realized that their bodies were effectively entangled and that she was bearing half of his weight, he shuddered. He was grateful and embarrassed and a host of other emotions that wrapped themselves around his chest in a grip that was equal parts confusion and clarity, until he felt so raw that it was almost painful.

If he'd been completely sober, Cal would've listened to his first instinct – which was to pull away from her. To shrug her off and insist that he was just fine, thank-you-very-much, and that he did not need a babysitter. But she smelled really good, and he was really tired, and maybe she _did_ know best. Maybe she really wouldn't run. Maybe he should just shut up and go with the flow, and let himself remember that he trusted her.

_Maybe_.

Funny how that word wasn't making him angry anymore.

With a heavy sigh, he spoke the only words that seemed to fit the moment. "I owe you one, love."

Gillian tightened her grip around his waist and steered them toward the door. "What are friends for, right?" she offered. And then, with a level of foreshadowing that neither of them would be able to appreciate until much, much later, she said, "If I ever find myself staring down the barrel of a broken marriage, then I'll gladly let you return the favor."


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N: Thank you again to everyone who has reviewed, messaged me, alerted, etc. You guys are awesome!_**

**_As it happens, I published a different version of this chapter earlier today, and it has been majorly changed. Trust me... this version is better. The next chapter is nearly done, and I will try to post before the weekend._**

**_Just a quick note about Alec..._**  
**_'Humanizing' his character was much, much harder than I expected and in all honesty, I don't think I did a very good job of it. At this point in their history (pre-Sophie), it's my opinion that he loves Gillian very much, but that he is battling some inner demons and as a result, has a tendency to react badly to the evolution of her relationship with Cal. Hope that makes sense..._**

**_As always, thanks for reading!_**

* * *

Alec Foster took one look at the man who was flopped – literally – across his sofa, and frowned. "Gillian, I thought we talked about this."

"I know," she quickly agreed. "I _know_ we did. And I'm sorry, Alec, but…"

_But_.

There was always a _'but_.'

In this case, the 'but' made him think that what she was _really_ sorry for was the fact that Cal was hurting and _not_ that she was putting her business partner ahead of their marriage, yet again. After all, he and Gillian had been through this exact conversation at least two dozen times, and after each one – each time she worked till midnight, or answered middle-of-the-night phone calls about cases and clients, or invited her _friend_ to crash on their couch – she promised there wouldn't be a 'next time.'

Trouble was, they both knew there would always be a next time. Even though she hadn't _meant_ to lie, the ties that bound her to Lightman were tighter than she could apparently understand and helping him was her natural response. Hence, an angry confrontation with Zoe Landau... an hour's worth of frantic phone calls that he hadn't answered... and the _real_ kicker: driving to Lightman's favorite bar to pick up the pieces after his marriage had apparently imploded. Truth be told, it was the most absurd 'next time' yet, and it wasn't even finished.

Looking just the tiniest bit ashamed of herself, Gillian took one halting step toward Alec (_a move_ _she immediately countered by looking back over her shoulder at Lightman_), and tried to apologize again. ""It's just for one night, Alec. And I'm sorry, but…"

Because he was running short on patience and sympathy, he didn't give her the chance to finish. After all, he already knew exactly what she was about to say, and it was – without question – the _very last thing_ he was in the mood to hear. And so, he decided to save her the trouble.

"_But_… it's _Cal_, and he's your _friend_, and he _needs_ you," he said, sarcastically enunciating the words just to hurt her a little bit. "That pretty much sums it up, doesn't it? Or did I miss something?"

Gillian sighed. "Like I said, it's just for one night. And I _really_ don't understand why you always try to make my friendship with Cal sound like such a bad thing. I swear, it's like you're trying to make me feel guilty for something I haven't even done. For something I would _never_ do."

The look in her eyes made him feel like an arrogant asshole for even implying that she'd been unfaithful (or planned to be), but sheer irritation over having another man so involved in their personal lives (and having his wife involved in someone else's) had pushed him too far over the edge to care.

He had not signed up for any of this, and lately, it felt like he spent half his time functioning as a proverbial third wheel.

"It's been what…? Two weeks since his last 'sleepover?' he asked rhetorically. "Come on, Gillian - at this rate, it might be easier just to give him a spare key."

If Alec Foster had been trained to read the specific tells in Gillian's reaction, he would've seen the way her face instantly paled as soon as he said the words "spare key," and he would've noticed the way she turned her body away from his and toward Cal's. And by default, he would've immediately known what her body language had just 'admitted.'

That she'd already given Cal a spare key months ago. And that he'd already used it twice.

And if he'd been trained to read her behavior, the way that she and Cal were trained to read everyone else's, he would have recognized the truth: that it was his own pathetic insecurities that were driving her farther and farther away, just an inch at a time.

But he didn't see it at all.

Sometimes it felt like he couldn't see anything anymore, except for the haunting shadow of his own failure and the premonition that he was about to lose everything. His career, his marriage, his self-respect - all of it, washed away under the watchful eyes of not one, but _two_ human lie detectors. Talk about getting salt in his wounds...

Gillian, to her credit, must've read the intensity on his face well enough to know what was about to happen. He'd overreact... start an argument... wind up saying something he'd regret... and then feel like total shit for days afterward, just because he'd hurt her. And so she tried to stop it before it could start. She tried to fix things before they broke even further.

"You know I hate it when we argue," she said simply. No excuses, no promises... just a simple statement that told him, in no uncertain terms, that she was as tired of living in this cycle as he was. The blame game. The insecurity. All of it hurt like hell, and all of it was pointless, really, because no one ever won. They were never happy - at least not together. She was happy with work, and with Lightman, and he was happy with...

_Wait a minute._

What was he happy with, again?

That used to be such an easy question. Two short years ago, he would have given an instant answer. Two short years ago he was clean and sober and planning a family; he was on the fact track to carreer success and building a corporate image that he just knew would carry him all the way to the top. But now...

Now, he was no where near clean and sober (though he tried like hell to be), and he was a semi-willing participant in countless rounds of fertility treatments, and his fast track career had driven his wife - the woman he still loved more than anything in the world, thank-you-very-much - right into partnership with a man who had a habit of sleeping on their sofa several times a year.

How quickly everything had changed.

But because all of that sounded utterly depressing, and he didn't want to delve into the details of their marriage while Cal Lightman sat only a few feet away (no doubt listening to every word they said and reading every microexpression he saw), the only response Alec could really give Gillian was this: "I hate it too."

At least it was the truth.

Sometimes he had a horrible way of showing it, but he _did_ love her. And he didn't _want_ things to be strained between them. Trouble was, they'd gotten so off course in the last few months that he had no idea how to "fix" everything. Truth be told, cracks had begun forming in the Foster marriage long before Cal Lightman ever entered the picture. They'd been patched up and taped over more times than he could count – from fertility issues, to financial problems, to the drug addiction he'd battled for years, but never quite conquered – and Alec often wondered how much longer the repairs would hold before they finally just… failed.

He knew that Cal wasn't the cause of the current chunk of problems he shared with Gillian but his overbearing presence in their lives wasn't exactly easy to ignore. The man was about as subtle as a bull in a china shop, and now that the Lightman marriage had basically imploded, Alec had a feeling that things were about to get much more… intense… between the two business partners.

That being said, he didn't want to open up the giant can of worms that allowed Cal to set up temporary housing in their living room because, quite frankly, he knew that Gillian was only kidding herself when she said it would be 'just one night.'

He was trying to figure out how to avoid the entire situation - what possible thing he could say to Gillian that would get Lightman out of their house without causing a civil war between them. And he hadn't realized so much silence had stretched between them, until she looked at him with an odd mix of compassion and frustration on her face and launched into a monologue that had equal parts of those same emotions: compassion for Cal in light of his situation with Zoe, and frustration with Alec for refusing to change his opinion.

It was a total deadlock.

"It is my house too, you know," she started. "It's my name on the mortgage right there beside yours. And I know you wish that Cal and I weren't friends, Alec - I know you wish that our relationship was strictly business and that we never saw each other outside of the office, but that's just not how it works. He's my partner and my best friend, and if I care about him enough to invite him here, into the home that I help pay for, well then the least you can do is be supportive, rather than acting like an insecure little boy. It's our couch, alright? _Our_ _couch_, not our bed. It's not like I invited him to sleep between us."

It was the final comment that did it. The moment she said the words "bed " and "between us," Alec began to see things from a third person perspective. He could see them standing there, face to face in their living room while Cal hovered nearby, bouncing between the sofa and the kitchen in that overly fidgety way that drove everyone but Gillian completely insane. He could see the utter ridiculousness of the entire thing - from her inability to recognize the red flags in her friendship, to his constant insecurity that she'd eventually want it to turn into something more - and it made him angry. They were effectively stuck; choosing sides in a battle that neither of them wanted to fight. Friendship versus marriage. Loyalty versus obligation. Gillian and Alec, versus Gillian and Cal.

Whatever the outcome, he wasn't sure that anyone would ever actually 'win.'

And so rather than continue with the bullshit and the arrogance that he knew would only make things worse, he tried his hand at honesty instead.

"Just for the record, Gill?" he started. "I _do not care_ if you're friends with him. You're a good person, and I know you want to help him. I know there's a part of you that wants to _save_ him, even. To _fix_ him. And the two of you have history together – I get that. But I'm not blind. That man looks at you like you're his lifeline. I know you can't see it, but it's there. It's always there. And trust me – having that kind of connection with someone is a very powerful thing. It's… addictive."

He'd meant well. He had. And in his head, everything he'd said sounded perfectly sensible. Perfectly fine. But somehow, his idea of a heartfelt conversation managed to flip an invisible switch that threw Gillian's easy-going, hyper-rational personality completely off course.

"Just for the record," she started, mocking him intentionally. And those four little words were his only hint that something had gone wrong. That the Gillian Foster he thought he knew was about to show him a side of herself he hadn't seen in ages.

"Cal Lightman does _not_ need saving. And I do not need to 'fix' him because he is not broken. And quite frankly, I'd think that a person in your position ought to be more sympathetic to someone who relies on alcohol to numb their pain."

There was a vaguely familiar look on her face that made every hair on the back of Alec's neck stand at attention. Something... unexplainable that made him feel extremely aware of Cal Lightman's presence in their home, and also extremely aware of Gillian's reaction to it. She was very protective of him, and although a certain degree of that was normal in most friendships, the spark of fire he saw in her eyes when she said the words 'not broken' made Alec feel slightly nauseous. The last time he'd seen that look on Gillian's face, she'd been straight out of grad school and telling him about all the 'wrongs' she wanted to 'right.' Seeing her wear it now because of a gut reaction to defend Lightman didn't exactly make him feel better about anything.

_Not at all._

But then as quickly as it came, that over-protective, fiery gaze fell away and was replaced with a look of absolute sadness. The transition between the two made his head feel fuzzy. He didn't understand it at all.

"And just for the record?" she said, mocking him again and speaking in a voice so completely hollow that it broke his heart just a little bit. "If _anyone_ in this room needs fixing... it's _you_."

_Checkmate_.

With those few short words – true and haunting as they were – every ounce of anger and confusion fell out of Alec Foster's body, until there was almost no emotion left at all, and he felt absolutely gutted.

He knew all too well what Gillian meant, and exactly what point she was trying to make. And it made him feel about two inches tall; like an absolute failure who couldn't manage to keep his demons in check, and was on the fast track to divorce right along with Lightman unless he made a serious life change. The only saving grace - the only thing that kept him standing upright in the room with Gillian and Cal, rather than either collapsing to the floor in utter shock or throwing his fist through the nearest wall - was that she had not elaborated.

And unless she'd broken her promise (which was extremely unlikely), then it meant his secret was still safe. His demons might've been restless, but they were still temporarily leashed.

Deep down, Alec Foster was tired. He was tired of fighting… tired of the struggles… tired of watching the way Gillian had begun looking at Cal as though he were the one solid thing in her life – the one who would never let her down. It made him feel like an absolute failure. And that, more than anything else, was what he really feared.

His own failure.

Cursing the involuntary shudder than ran through him as his brain wrestled with that awful word, Alec tried to re-group. He tried to change course and see things from Lightman's point of view, so he could understand why Gillian had brought him into their home in the first place. Because even though he might've been an arrogant asshole at times, he wasn't totally heartless.

"Just so we're clear," he sighed. "Zoe just… left? She took Emily with her and… _that's it_? They aren't even going to _try_ anymore?"

Gillian nodded. Though she was obviously suspicious about the change in his attitude, the anger that had been building inside of her was cooled by the myriad of emotions that he felt flickering across his face. Fear… guilt… curiosity… compassion. She saw each one pass in turn, until the fire he'd seen in her eyes finally dissipated completely.

"He feels like a failure, Alec."

There it was again… such a horrible word.

_Failure_.

The sound of it made him cringe – it made him actually _wince_ – but Gillian didn't notice. She'd already turned her attention back to Cal and was studying his face at a distance.

"If anyone in his life understands what it feels like to lose a child, it's me," she whispered, suddenly careful to keep her voice so low that there was no possible way Cal had heard her. "And yes, I know it's probably stupid and selfish to draw a parallel between _my_ infertility and _his_ divorce, but…"

As her voice faded away, he spotted one loan tear in the corner of her eye. The sight of it made him feel like the world's biggest jackass. He hadn't expected to feel sympathy for Gillian, not when he was still so tied up in his own insecurity and his own doubt, and doing a total shit job of keeping his feelings about Cal Lightman out of the picture. But he did. He felt it all the way to his bones, and it made him want to make all of the past promises he'd made to her finally come true. That he'd stay clean this time... that they'd find a way to make the treatments work... that somehow, someway, he'd give her the family that she'd always wanted.

The best he could offer, though, was a shred of heartfelt honesty.

"I might not be able to read people like Lightman does, and I definitely don't have a heart that wants to save the world, like you do, but I'm not ignorant, Gillian," he said gently. "And I'm not empty inside. Just promise me something?"

In his periphery, Alec noticed the older man watching them. He was listening… _judging_. And the look he saw on Lightman's face _every single time_ his eyes focused on Gillian? The one that he probably had no earthly clue was even there in the first place?

It was downright possessive.

That realization made every hair on the back of Alec's neck stand at attention, once again. Instantly, all of the irritation and jealousy and _fear_ he'd tried to hide began creeping back to the surface until he'd gotten so worked up that it was all he could do to keep the emotion out of his voice, lest she hear it for what it _actually_ was.

"Promise me that you'll try to put us first, alright? For better or worse, sickness and health... all of that. Promise me that these impromptu sleepovers will stop. And that from here on out, the only man you'll try to rescue is me. Because believe me, Gillian... I need you. I need you just as much as he does."

There was a moment, then – just a fleeting glimpse of _something_ he caught on Gillian's face that made him think maybe, _just maybe_, their marriage would be alright. Maybe she understood. Maybe he'd finally be able to beat his demons into submission and give her the kind of life she deserved.

But it was gone an instant later, when Cal Lightman cleared his throat - drawing both pairs of eyes to his spot on the couch, where his smug grin met their curious stares. As the grin predictably widened, and Alec realized that Cal was looking at him with a mix of humor and repulsion while looking at Gillian with that same possessiveness he'd seen moments earlier, he just knew something was about to go terribly wrong.

And then right on cue… it did.

"Bloody hell, Foster. Keep going on like that and you might as well whip out your tackle and mark her with it. A little circle of pee, just like a dog would make... just to keep the enemies at bay, yeah?"

The silence that filled the room was suddenly deafening – as if both Gillian and Alec were afraid to blink or breathe or even move a muscle, for fear that the tension Cal had just created would swallow them whole. And it was through sheer willpower alone that Alec simply stood there, silently waiting for his wife to tell her… _friend_… that he needed to leave. But she didn't.

She couldn't.

Instead, she turned toward Alec with wide eyes and a semi-sympathetic smile - one that tried to excuse Cal's behavior in light of everything that had happened in his own marriage in the last few hours. As if that would make everything better... as if Alec should just forgive and forget and run on up the stairs to bed, while Cal set up camp in the living room below.

Strangely enough, it might have worked. He might have just let the whole thing drop, if not for Lightman's next comment.

"Perhaps you'd have a little bit less insecurity if you acted like a man for once in your life and just accepted the truth. If you love Gillian as much as you say you do, then love her enough to make her own decisions. If you try to control every single choice she makes,the day she wakes up and finally realizes that she doesn't love you anymore will only come that much faster."

That failure Alec was so afraid of facing? There it stood, staring him right in the face.

* * *

**To be continued...**

**(Chapter 4 will pick up right where this leaves off.)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This chapter picks up right where #3 left off...**

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

"Give me fifteen minutes, alright?" Gillian stretched up to press an awkward, clumsy kiss on Alec's cheek and by the time the last word was spoken, she'd already turned toward Cal.

Of course Alec didn't think it was alright, and he certainly didn't understand why she wanted it. Lighman was a grown man, and he didn't need Gillian to… tuck him in, or hold his hand, or whatever else might pop into her brain. It was a very bad idea, to say the least.

And he tried to tell her as much. He tried to make her understand his point of view – in a polite, compassionate way that he knew she'd probably just ignore, but since Lightman was standing right there, just looking for another reason to attack him for something, he opted to show self-control, rather than give into the possessive impulses that were firing through his system.

"Listen, Gill, I don't think that's such a good…"

Gillian didn't let him finish. Instead, she stood next to Cal with her hands on her hips – so that the picture they made together was akin to a united front. Cal and Gillian, versus Alec. It was unintentional on her part, but extremely foretelling as far as he was concerned.

Still, he kept his temper in check.

"Fifteen minutes isn't the end of the world, Alec. Please. Try and understand. I just… I just need to make sure everything is alright."

And _that's_ when he started to crack. _That's_ when the edges of Alec's self-control started to fray beyond repair, and he simply could not bite his tongue any so… he didn't.

"Alright with him, you mean?" he asked coldly. "Or alright with yourself?"

Gillian didn't answer him directly. She sighed instead, and repeated the words that they all knew would prove to be a lie.

"Just fifteen minutes," she said, stretching up on her toes to press an awkward, clumsy kiss against his cheek. "I'll be up soon."

* * *

_Fifteen minutes._

As soon as Gillian made that promise, Cal knew she'd never keep it. But since he'd just made a monumental ass of himself by calling her husband a territorial wanker who hadn't yet learned how to act like a man, he didn't think it was in his best interest to call her bluff in front of Alec.

But now that they were alone, he couldn't resist the urge to pull that thread, just a little bit.

"Better keep an eye on the clock, Foster," he said with a half-hidden grin. "Fifteen minutes goes by fast, and it would be a total shame if you broke your…"

_Promise_. He was going to say promise, but the glare that Gillian gave him – the one that told him he really needed to quit while he was ahead, lest she decide to rip his tackle right off at the root – caused the word to fizzle in his mouth, unspoken.

The 'monumental ass' factor was still in play, apparently.

"Don't even say it," she warned. "Please, Cal. Just let it go."

He heard an edge in her voice that hadn't been there before, and the sound of it automatically made him lift his hands in 'surrender.' As if to say that he'd heard her warning loud and clear. No smart-assed comments, and no games. And that whatever happened next – whether she wanted to toss him out the door, or run upstairs after Alec, or break out the bottle of Scotch he knew she'd stashed somewhere in the house (_just for him_) –was entirely up to her.

While the gesture didn't erase her glare completely, it did soften quite a bit. Truth be told, he wasn't surprised. She'd never been able to stay angry with him for very long, and it seemed that this time would be no different.

Gillian took a deep breath and approached him so steadily that it actually made him a bit nervous. She moved so deliberately that he had ample time to read the depth of each reaction – of each emotion – that passed over her face. From anger, to guilt, to sadness and regret… they went one by one, until she finally settled on one: extreme frustration.

Interesting. In front of Alec, she'd been much more passive.

No, no… that was the wrong word, because Gillian Foster had never been passive about anything. It was more like… _controlled_.

Yes, she'd used a controlled, measured response that was meant for Alec's benefit, not his. And now that they were alone, the careful façade she'd built dropped away to reveal a bit more insight about her true feelings. _Definitely interesting. _It made Cal wonder how often she let Alec see the real version of herself that he'd come to know so well; the one that always managed to hold the perfect balance of rationality, confidence, and loyalty.

In one swift move, Gillian cocked her finger at him and pointed it right in his face. It was completely out of character… completely different than anything she'd ever done to him before, and so he just stood there in silence, half convinced she was going to slap him, and _more-than-half_ convinced he deserved it. Either way, he was really, _really_ hoping that she'd take pity on him and let his asinine comments slide.

But then as if she'd literally plucked the thought right out of his head, Gillian rolled her eyes and said, "Give me a little more credit than that, Cal. If I was prone to slapping you every time you said something stupid, my hand would be permanently wrapped with ice."

It was a very fair point, indeed, and he had a sneaking suspicion that she had a killer right hook. But because the look in her eye told him she wasn't finished yet, Cal bit back the urge to crack a joke (_which was pretty much his 'default' setting whenever she was irritated with him_) and did his best to listen patiently. And even though the idea of 'stillness' in any capacity caused his body to rebel, he somehow controlled the urge to fidget.

"Let's get one thing straight right now," Gillian started. She began to circle him ever-so-slowly, like a boxer in a ring. It made whatever she was about to say suddenly seem ten times more important, and he wondered why she was still bothering to point at him when she already had his undivided attention.

"I do not want to hear a _single word_ about broken promises, alright?" she continued. "Trust me, Cal, that won't work on me tonight. I know exactly what you're doing, and I know exactly _why _you just said two of the _most_ inappropriate things I've ever heard in my _entire life_ – to my _husband_, no less."

Cal had a sneaking suspicion that she actually had managed to figure out why he'd said it, but he was too proud to show his cards. Not yet. So instead of giving her anything to work with – any clue to let her know what the real truth was - he simply grinned. "S'that so, love? Well then, by all means: let's hear it."

Because she wasn't in much of a mood to humor him _or_ to be gracious at all, she took the finger that was still pointed right at his face and aimed it downward, into the center of his chest. That's right: she poked him. Just for emphasis.

And just because she knew it would irritate him.

_Poke, poke._

"You're just trying to push me away," she explained. "Trying to pick a fight with Alec so that I'm forced to choose a side – either yours, or his."

He wore an even wider grin, then. "Think you're pretty smart, do you?"

"I'm smart enough to find the fatal flaw in your plan," she said calmly.

_Poke, poke._

Cal's grin slipped away as suspicion began to cloud his features. "Meaning… what, exactly?" he asked.

"Meaning… you assume I'll always choose him," Gillian answered. And then without giving him a chance to react, and without noticing the fact that her little truth-telling mission was about to set off a minor panic attack within him, she immediately launched into the second half of her 'speech.'

"Jesus, Cal – sometimes it's scary how similar the two of you _actually_ are. I mean, I've got Alec accusing me of letting my loyalties to _you_ destroy our marriage, and then I've got _you_ trying to push me away as hard as possible, because you're afraid of the exact same thing."

Bloody hell, where had that come from? What in the world would possibly make her think that he and Alec were _anything_ alike?

_Cal Lightman_: a cynical, scrappy scientist with a penchant for liquor and gambling and a wife who'd finally decided he was utterly repulsive, versus Alec Foster: a political man with a silver spoon upbringing, who wouldn't know his way around a poker table if his very life depended on it.

It made no sense to him at all.

"I'm sorry love, but that is the biggest load of…"

_Poke, poke._

There went her finger again, right into his chest before he had the chance to elaborate. "No, it isn't. He has his demons just like you have yours, and both of you feel the same all-consuming need to protect me from them."

Jesus, she was full of surprises. There were at least a thousand different ways he could have interpreted her words – a thousand different demons to name – but she didn't give him the chance to ask.

_Poke, poke. _

"I need you _both_ to stop worrying about me all the time and just… let me be myself. Fair enough? _Both of you_ need to take me down off this pedestal and give me the chance to screw up once in a while. Believe me, Cal – I will not break, and I am not perfect. You just haven't been paying attention well enough to see most of my flaws."

Every single feature on Cal's face softened, as he instinctively stepped closer to her. And when she went to poke him again, he was close enough that her entire hand collided with his chest instead, so that she ended up holding it there just above his heart.

The feel of her fingertips against his chest flipped some kind of invisible switch that Cal didn't even know he had, and he felt every ounce of arrogance leave his body. Months later, he'd come to recognize the moment for what it was. But right then? Standing face to face in the middle of her living room, on a day when everything else in his personal life had completely fallen apart? All he wanted to do was tell her the truth.

He owed her that much.

"And that's where _your_ logic is wrong, love," he said. "I'm always paying attention. _Always_. And if I do put you on a pedestal sometimes, it's only because…"

Totally surprised, Gillian lifted her hand from his chest – just a bit… just to shift it higher. But the temporary loss of contact made him stop and think about what he was about to say, and the fact that it was probably more truth than either one of them could handle.

Gillian, on the other hand, looked stricken by his sudden silence. "Because of what…?" she prompted. "Please, Cal. Whatever it is, please tell me."

As clichéd and sappy as he knew it sounded, Gillian chose that moment – that exact moment – to shift her hand again, until it lay completely flat against his heart once more. And just like that, he had the courage to answer.

"If I do put you on a pedestal," he repeated, "it's only because most of the time, I don't feel worthy of having you walk beside me."

Happiness… disbelief… confusion… and guilt. Her reaction held bits and pieces of each emotion, mixed together in such an intricate blend that it was impossible for him to tell where one stopped and the next began – though he would've been perfectly content to stand there and try.

But…

But then Gillian glanced down at his chest, and the temporary spell was broken, as quickly as it had been cast.

"I'm your _friend_, Cal," she continued. And he couldn't help but focus on the way she said the word 'friend' as if the weight of the syllable was too heavy against her lips.

"I'm your _friend_ first, and your _partner_ second, and no matter how hard you try, you are not going to push me away. Not now, and not ever."

It was the second time that night she'd made that type of comment – about how she'd always be there for him. As the words hung between them, he watched a tear come to her eye, and he saw the tension creep back into her face, and he knew that whatever progress they'd made in the last few minutes was gone. All of a sudden, Gillian looked like she was torn between wanting to hit something and wanting to burst into tears. The last thing he wanted to do was push her over either edge.

And so Cal raised his palms in 'surrender' again, because quite frankly, it was all too much and one of them needed to change the subject, or he'd likely fall completely apart and head right back to that bar for a nightcap. Or four.

Ten years of marriage with Zoe, and they'd never done this – never talked their way through much of anything. And it was totally baffling to him to try it now, with Gillian. She was someone else's wife. And he was still someone else's husband. And it felt… much too raw to be healthy.

Gillian saw the change. She saw the precise moment when he shifted away from sensitive and trusting, and moved back toward a self-depreciating fog. "Cal, wait…" she tried.

But he didn't _want_ to wait, and he didn't want to talk anymore, and his walls were shooting back up again with lightning speed. And now that he was sober again, he felt much more inclined to be… well, '_Lightman,'_ about everything.

He took two steps backward, just to put distance between them, and shrugged. Since Gillian hadn't changed the subject, he decided to do it himself.

"About what I said before? To Alec? I meant no harm," he said. "Scout's honor, and all that."

He was speaking in short, choppy sentences that made him sound colder than he felt, and more hollow than heshould have, but he couldn't seem to stop the trend now that he'd started it.

"Told you this was a bad idea, love. Can't seem to bite my tongue wherever you're concerned. Trust me to spark civil war in your house on the same day Zoe gave me my walking papers. Apparently she was right. Apparently I really do taint everything."

Ten seconds. Gillian stood there in silence for ten short seconds – looking at him like he'd just sprouted tentacles and a second head, no less – before locking her hands on her hips and giving him the most over dramatic eye roll he'd ever seen. So much for walking the tight rope between anger and sadness; now, she looked ready to burst out laughing.

"Two points," she said. "_One_: There is absolutely no way anyone would _ever_ believe that you were a boy scout, so don't even try that 'honor' thing with me. And _two_: I'm very familiar with your inability to bite your tongue. It's totally infuriating, in this charming way that would _never_ work for anyone else, but somehow works for you. Give me a little credit, alright? I knew _exactly_ what I was signing up for when I brought you home with me, just like I knew exactly why you were trying to push me away."

Cal sighed. All the stress of the evening was wearing on his sanity, and he could've sworn they'd already had this conversation at least five times. "_If_ I am pushing you away…"

She rolled her eyes again. "You _are_."

"… then it's only because I don't want to watch your marriage fall apart the way mine just did. And if your loyalty to me causes problems in your marriage, well then… it seems like a royally bad idea to have me bunking on your sofa. Alec already thinks you make a habit of choosing me over him. Best not to give him any more ammunition, because _trust me_ love – that argument will _not_ end well."

There. For better or worse, that was the truth of it.

Gillian sighed and gradually turned away from him. Out of the blue, she crossed to the other side of the room and began fussing with lamps and locks and random piles of mail – making deliberate, disconnected movements that made him absolutely certain she was stalling. He just had no idea _why_.

"You don't have to do that, you know," she said suddenly.

The fact that she'd somehow managed to read his mind even though she couldn't even see his face was completely baffling, even though it wasn't the first time she'd done it. She was the only person in his life who'd ever been able to do that; the only one who knew him well enough to predict what he was going to _say_ and _do_ and _feel_, even before he figured it out for himself.

"Do what, love?" he asked, even though he already had a pretty good idea of exactly what she meant.

Gillian gave a casual shrug, as if having a heart-to-heart discussion in the middle of the night was something they did all the time. "You don't have to worry about me so much."

"…Says the woman who drove an hour out of her way, at night, just to drag my pathetic, piss drunk body out of a bar," he said pointedly. "So really, the same could be said of you."

No less than five seconds later, he finally saw it. A genuine smile. It instantly made him feel as though half the weight had been lifted off his chest and the funnel cloud of emotional upheaval had finally slowed to a breeze.

"I'm a big girl, Cal. And _yes_, you do make a valid point about Alec, but please… for tonight at least, let's just drop it. Okay? Tonight, let _me_ be here for _you_. Not the other way around. "

It was the most massive deflection Cal had ever heard, and he couldn't resist the urge to call her on it. "Just so we're clear, Gill, I meant what I said earlier. I really don't want to watch the same thing happen to you, yeah? The fighting… the divorce… none of it."

She didn't answer him directly. Instead, she made a noise which he loosely translated as '_you are a giant idiot, Lightman_,' and then she made a joke.

"So close your eyes, then," she said calmly. "That way you won't have to watch."

No less than ten minutes after her brooding, possessive husband had sulked his way upstairs alone, Gillian stood there joking with him. It made no sense, and in the back of Cal's mind a red flag began to wave.

"Gillian, listen…"

But then she used the 'surrender' gesture on him, and moved a few steps closer to the sofa. Conversation finished.

"I'm too tired to listen, Cal," she said. "So can we just… can we just sit here together?"

He frowned. _Now_ she was tired. A minute earlier she'd been straightening shoes and sorting mail and making a _bloody joke_, and now she was tired. The quick change in emotions was definitely out of character, and just like that, a second red flag joined the first.

But instead of saying anything about it, he simply sank down onto the sofa. Now that she mentioned it, he was tired too. Really bloody tired, thanks to the liquor and the stress and… everything.

"Tell you what?" she offered. "First thing tomorrow morning you can give me the biggest lecture in the world, but right now let's just forget about everything, alright?"

Gillian was standing in front of the sofa where he still sat – so that his gaze was directed upward, and from that position all of her features were a little bit distorted. He couldn't see things as easily as he normally did, and he couldn't read her as well, so he tried to take everything at face value. He _tried_ to believe that they really would talk in the morning (_though asking him to just 'forget about' anything was really not her style_). And when she finally stopped fidgeting and flopped down next to him… well, he tried like hell to hide his reaction.

"Tried" being the key word, because she was making things bloody difficult.

It had been a total shit storm of an evening, and truth be told, they both needed some distance. But instead of sitting on the other cushion – the one farthest away from his body – Gillian scooted onto the center one and pulled herself right against him. And just like that, even though neither one of them had the intention of doing anything _remotely _sexual on that couch, Cal decided that the entire situation now fell into the category of "Very Bad Idea."

_As in_, monumentally bad.

So monumentally bad that he could picture the caption in his mind's eye – printed in giant, capital letters and surrounded by neon lights, and glitter, and those idiotic looking plastic googly eyes that young Emily liked to stick _bloody everywhere_.

But Gillian was busy fussing with the blanket she'd pulled from the back of the couch, and she didn't see the uncertainty in his eyes. She was blind to the glitter and the neon lights and the dozens of red flags that had started to appear, and she seemed totally, completely content. Totally relaxed.

_Peaceful_.

They made quite the contradiction; one beautiful, relaxed psychologist, and one scraggly lie detector with a penchant for chasing every single person in his life right out the door.

_Save for Gillian, apparently._

"I can _hear_ you thinking, you know," she said suddenly.

Had he been a decent man, Cal would've gotten up right then and gone to sleep in the bloody kitchen, just to keep some distance between them, because common sense told him where this was leading. Common sense told him that Gillian Foster was getting ready to sleep there with him (_literally, not sexually_) for the entire night, and that all hell would likely break loose the next morning.

But she gave him a tiny half-smile as she shook out the blanket and fanned it across both of their laps, and the sight of it – the sight of that tiny, little _innocent_ smile – quickly shoved most of Cal's decency right out the window.

_In for a penny, in for a pound._

With a quick shift, Gillian brought her feet to the coffee table and crossed them at the ankles. She was a mirror image of his posture and once she finally allowed herself to settle, it took mere seconds before Cal felt her body relax completely against his. She quite literally sank against him, right into his frame.

And in the back of Cal's mind, several things began to nag at him simultaneously. The time, for one – because it had been, _what_…? Twelve, maybe thirteen minutes since Alec left the room? Gillian promised fifteen.

She _promised_ fifteen.

But then as the next group of nagging thoughts came into play – the group that was very interested in how warm she felt, and how good she still smelled – he caught sight of her fingers as they smoothed over the surface of the blanket. They were fidgeting and flicking like they were searching for something to hold, and the _very last thing_ he wanted to do was turn her away.

"You're always thinking, aren't you?" Gillian breathed, and the words sounded so disconnected that he had to force his mind to remember what she'd said only seconds earlier. "Always so serious."

To his credit, when Cal opened his mouth to answer her, his intention _really_ _was_ to send her upstairs. To her husband. But all he managed to get out was, "Gillian, I think…" before she yawned and dropped her head against his shoulder.

_Bloody hell._

"I'm so tired, Cal," she said. "I'm tired of the stress, and I just… I just need a break, you know? Just for a little while."

Hours later, with the benefit of a good night's sleep under his belt and hindsight working to his advantage, Cal would realize that the hammering he immediately felt in his chest was intended to be a warning. Namely, that he _should not care_ how warm she was, and he _should not care_ that she'd wrapped one delicate hand around his right bicep and tucked the blanket a bit tighter around her hip… and he absolutely _should_ care that twenty bloody minutes had surely passed by then, which meant that Alec Foster was faced with only two options. He could either come downstairs looking for Gillian himself, or brood silently in their bedroom until morning. And neither of those ideas was very appealing at all.

Gillian's eyes were closed by the time he spoke again. "What about Alec?" he whispered.

Translation being, '_I think your husband is going to go absolutely bonkers when he finds you here with me in the morning, but I don't have the heart to make you move, yeah?'_

A beat later, he felt her lips pull into a small smile against his skin. "Couch isn't big enough for three of us, Cal," she teased. "But it's sweet of you to think of him."

* * *

Alec found them before sunrise, just as he'd expected: with Gillian's head on Cal's shoulder and a single blanket covering both of them. They looked cozy and comfortable and so damned oblivious to everything around them that it was all he could do – _all he could do _– not to feed into the anger he felt, just to prove a point.

But he didn't.

He didn't raise his voice at all.

Instead, he simply kneeled down next to her and whispered through gritted teeth. "It's addictive, Gillian. I tried to warn you."


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: Many thanks again to everyone who commented or messaged me - it is much appreciated! (Special thank-you to Cee, Elaine, and Roadrunnerz for listening to my craziness, you guys are awesome!**_

_**(Slight language warning for this chapter... but the F-bomb Alec drops definitely fits his feelings in the moment, IMO.)**_

* * *

Alec Foster might have been many things, but he was not an idiot. As soon as he accepted Gillian's 'fifteen minute' compromise and left her there alone with Lightman, he knew exactly what was going to happen. And every single step that led him away from Gillian only led her closer to Cal.

It was a game changer.

In the eight years they'd been together (six of marriage and two before), he could literally count on a single hand the number of times he'd been angry with Gillian because of something '_she'_ had done. Oh sure, he'd been angry about lots of things – and on most days, he felt like his life was turning straight to hell. Like everything around him was spinning out of control and he was left grappling for a foothold. But this was different.

This was _his_ Gillian, wrapped around another man like a parasitic vine, and looking as peaceful and content as he'd seen her in months. It was everything he feared, yet everything he expected to find. And it might have been the first time in all their years together that she'd _intentionally_ broken a promise. She'd _promised_ to come to him… and yet she'd stayed with Lightman instead.

It was leveling to realize that a single decision had changed their dynamic so completely.

In his heart of hearts, Alec knew Gillian hadn't hurt him deliberately. No matter what their problems were, and no matter how much they'd been struggling to fix them, being cruel and manipulative simply wasn't her style. Not now, and not ever. The woman he'd always known her to be thrived on her natural ability to help people; to make them feel comfortable. She didn't play games when the stakes were this high.

Not to say that she was perfect, though. She wasn't, and he knew that. Gillian was human and flawed, just like he was. She came with baggage, just like he did. The only real difference between them – the one that kept him awake some nights, wondering when the floor would start dropping out from under his feet – was that she'd learned to cope with her past and move forward, while he was still struggling with demons that would likely never see the light of day.

The demons are what kept him there, standing stock still in front of the sofa as he tried to figure out his next move. The demons told him he was a failure… that he was stupidly pushing her away. And that if she'd gotten more of what she needed from him all along, then her relationship with Lightman would be much, much different.

_"And just for the record? If __anyone__ in this room needs fixing... it's __you__."_

As he replayed her words in his mind, Alec could feel his anger simmering. He'd braced himself for this exact scene, but he hadn't expected it to make him feel so… possessive. Deep down, he knew that nothing sexual was going on between Gillian and Cal, and he trusted her. He truly did. Problem was, he didn't trust Cal.

Not at all.

And so he _did not care_ that they were upright on the couch, rather than horizontal on a bed. And he _certainly_ did not care that Cal's hands weren't anywhere near Gillian's body; that they were resting chastely atop his stomach and that the older man wasn't touching so much as a millimeter of her soft skin.

None of that mattered to him at all.

What _did_ matter to him – the part that he _did_ care about – was the fact that Gillian's hands were curled around Lightman's inked bicep like they fucking _belonged_ there. He cared that her head was nestled so damn tightly against his chest that it was a miracle she'd been able to sleep at all, what with the sound of his heartbeat pounding in her ear. And most of all, he cared that Gillian looked absolutely, positively _peaceful_.

There she was, pressed up against Cal Lightman from head to toe, and smiling in her sleep.

She was _smiling_.

In her _sleep_.

Under the weight of his angry stare, Gillian roused just enough to turn her body inward – she didn't wake, but the change in positioning suddenly caused her breasts to be pressed right up against Lightman's arm. And as every cell in his entire body clenched in a simultaneous wave of jealousy and denial, that's when he heard it.

_His_ Gillian felt the pressure of Lightman's limb against her skin – against her breasts – and she let out the sweetest, most delicate groan that made Alec's vision go spotty and his nostrils begin to flare.

He knew that sound well. Or rather, _he used to know_ that sound well.

She didn't make it for him anymore.

As the repercussions of that one, tiny detail swept over him, Alec's eyes lingered on the way Gillian's delicate fingers still wrapped around Lightman's bicep in a possessive curl, and those few demons he'd managed to contain (the ones that hadn't yet succumbed to the pull of cocaine and the pressures of a blossoming career) overtook logical thought. He was angry – epically, irrationally angry.

And he didn't give a rat's ass about logical thought.

_Logical_ thought made him feel about two inches tall and completely undeserving of having someone as whole-heartedly _good_ as Gillian Foster in his life.

_Logical_ thought told him that he was a miserable hypocrite for expecting her to turn away from the arms of her best friend when _he_ couldn't even turn away from the drugs.

It was _his_ addiction that was slowly driving the wedge between them, after all; not her friendship with another man. And even though he knew – _he just knew_ – that there would someday be much more than friendship between Gillian and Cal, it was still _his_ baggage that fueled at least half of the anger he felt.

It was _his_ fear of failure. _His_ fear of losing her. And he knew it would soon be a self-fulfilling prophecy if he couldn't manage to keep his shit together.

If Alec had been a bigger person… if he'd been able to look past the curl of Gillian's fingers and past his own gaping, gasping insecurities, he would've stopped. He would've _literally_ stopped – right in front of the couch where she was still sleeping – and he would've told her that he was sorry. That he would try harder; that she deserved better. He would've told her that she deserved… _everything_.

But he didn't. He couldn't. He was so caught up in anger and illogical thought, that by the time he knelt in front of her and whispered a hypocritical quip about addiction that he knew she wouldn't even _hear_, the 'fight or flight' response in his brain already flipped to 'flight.' Instinct told him to run… to escape… to drown his problems in white powder and a temporary high. Failure was his biggest fear, but in _that_ reality, he never failed.

Never.

And in _that_ reality, there were no men named Cal Lightman waiting in the wings for the day when Gillian finally decided she couldn't carry his baggage any farther.

* * *

Eight years.

On the first morning in almost eight years that Gillian Foster woke next to a man who was not Alec, her _very first_ reaction – upon noticing that her fingers were curled around ink and that the skin beneath them was so much softer than she would've ever anticipated – was not guilt.

It was _not_.

It wasn't the first time they'd fallen asleep together, after all. She and Cal had been partners for years – they'd traveled together and napped on airplanes a time or two, whenever business called them out of town. So the simple act of sleeping next to him didn't shake her at all, because it was platonic and safe and they'd never even so much as stepped a _toe_ across the line toward impropriety.

Instead, her _very first_ reaction was a feeling of complete and utter relaxation. As if she'd spent _days_ lounging on a luxurious king sized bed alone, rather than grabbing five – maybe six – hours of sleep on her tiny old couch with Cal. In fact, she couldn't even remember the last time she felt so rested. And despite the turmoil that Cal had gone through the night before, Gillian was glad to have him there with her. Safe and warm and whole – under her hands, and against her heart.

It was accidental, really. As soon as the word 'heart' fluttered through her brain, she became aware of a certain… pressure in her chest. And then she realized that although they'd fallen asleep with their bodies completely parallel to one another, something had prompted her to… _shift_. To turn her body inward, so that Cal's arm was basically pinned against her breasts.

Hence, the pressure. Which had somehow caused every single nerve ending in her upper body to stand on end – as if they were now hyper-alert, just waiting for one of them to move away. And _that_ specific feeling is what caused the first tendrils of guilt to creep in. Not because of where his arm was, but because she wasn't moving herself away from it. Last she checked, safe and platonic had never included… _this_.

Interesting.

_But_…

But Cal smelled really good (_which she knew shouldn't even be possible, considering he'd spent hours in a bar drinking Scotch_), and his skin was warm against her, and it was Saturday, damn it. Which meant that they weren't late for work, and there was no real need to rush – aside from the fact that Alec would definitely get the wrong impression if he found them cocooned there together.

After all, an image of her breasts pressed against Cal's arm wouldn't exactly do wonders to help her case, and – quite frankly – it made her look like the most insensitive wife in world.

_Shit_.

Gillian sighed, owning the guilt that was now oozing to the surface and trying – but still failing – to convince her body to move. From her perch on Cal's shoulder she tried to guesstimate how much longer it would be until she heard angry footsteps on the staircase. She knew Alec would be so completely livid that she'd spent the entire night sleeping with Cal (_literally, not sexually_) that he'd probably rush out the door toward the safety of his office and she wouldn't see any sign of him for the rest of the day.

Maybe longer.

But if she'd been thinking logically, she would've remembered that Alec _never_ slept late. That his internal alarm clock was hard-wired to go off before sunrise, without fail, whether it was Saturday or not. And she would've understood that he had _already_ found them. That he'd _already_ darted out the door – tense and cagey as ever – without bothering to say a single word, and that the safety of his office could never compare to the magnetic pull of cocaine.

Most importantly, she would've understood that he was using a temporary high to counter a permanent problem, and _that_ – in a nutshell – had been the heart of the issues for months.

Tendrils of guilt had now become parasitic vines, and Gillian knew that if she and Cal stayed like this much longer, things would be awkward as hell. And to her credit, as soon as she lifted her feet from the coffee table and peeled the blanket away from her legs, her intention _really was_ to leave. To get up and get moving, and go straight to Alec to apologize.

But she'd only gotten as far as moving the blanket before Cal stirred. She heard him give a soft grumble of protest – as if to say she was being completely ridiculous, and it wasn't a big deal at all. That everything was fine. Platonic, and safe, and… fine.

And again, _to her credit _she tried to ignore it. She blocked the sound of his grumble and let her inner monologue give the flip side of his imaginary argument, telling him that '_platonic'_ and '_safe'_ were not the same thing as 'smart,' and that it was a monumentally stupid decision to stay that close together any longer.

She was winning the battle, too, until he dropped his head against her shoulder and made the noise again. _Grumble, grumble._

"'_S'comfortable here, Gill,'" _she imagined him saying_. "Five more minutes won't hurt a bloody thing."_

Chalk it up to rationalization, or stupidity, or complete denial. Whatever the reason, as Gillian allowed herself the luxury of listening to that imaginary voice and drifting back to sleep, there was only one conscious thought in her mind.

Five more minutes wouldn't really change anything.

* * *

**A/N: This was just a transition chapter, to show a bit more clearly where Alec and Gillian's mindset is. The next two chapters are full of Cal and Gillian banter - promise!**


	6. Chapter 6

**_A/N: Huge 'Thank You' to the readers and reviewers! You all made my week with your sweet comments and messages. It's very much appreciated!_ **

* * *

Aspirin.

When he finally found the strength to open his eyes, the _very first thought_ in Cal's brain was that he would've gladly given his right arm for a couple of aspirin, if not for the fact that it was otherwise trapped between both of Gillian's breasts.

Happily trapped, at that. In fact, the entire right side of his body – the one she was spooned up against so bloody tightly that there wasn't even a sliver of air between them – was positively humming. As if every one of the nerve endings there had been set on 'high alert.'

And so, he smiled. He smiled and stretched, and – God help him – actually tried to _wiggle_ that trapped arm, just a little bit (_scoundrel that he was_).

Yes, it was very happily trapped, for at least sixty… maybe ninety seconds. Until reality finally kicked him in the balls and told him that he needed to move, _right then_, before his body's natural response to the feel of a woman's breasts overtook what little sanity he still had, and pushed him toward something that would've been a giant, colossal mistake.

Reality was downright cruel.

Faced with the consequences of feeling his best friend's… lady bits… in a place she definitely should not have put them, Cal was flooded with a strange mix of guilt and panic. Mostly panic.

And to that end, he sat bolt upright on the sofa – moving so quickly that he effectively tossed Gillian in the other direction, until she landed on the cushion at the opposite end. Graceful, he was not. Choosing to ignoring the pounding in skull that had begun to make him nauseous, he turned toward Gillian before her body had a chance to settle which ended up being a really, _really_ bad idea because all of the commotion had caused certain parts of her body to… bounce.

Certain parts of her body which were _very_ attractive, mind you. Certain _very attractive_ parts which were completely and totally off-limits because she was bloody _married_, and, _technically_, so was he.

Technically.

And trust him, as soon as that thought filtered through his head, Cal wanted to kick himself. Because _that word_ had no bearing on anything. Nothing had changed. He loved Zoe, and Gillian loved Alec, and just because one spouse had walked away and another was a jealous idiot, that did not change the facts. Not at all.

They were _both_ married, to other people. "Technically" should never have even entered the picture.

_So what_ if Gillian had slept with him (_literally, not sexually_)? _So what_ if she opted to use his arm as a pillow? _So what_ if she was sitting there with her sweater all askew and pulled entirely too far down, and blushing at him like she'd been caught red handed doing something naughty?

Bloody hell.

The way Cal saw it, he had only two real options: he could either calm down, or find a pillow. And so he let out a groan of frustration as he dragged his eyes around the room, trying to focus on anything and everything that _did not_ remind him of Gillian's breasts – which was much harder than one might think. But he'd need to stand up soon, and barring some sort of a minor miracle in the next few moments, _standing up_ would only make things more awkward.

They weren't magic pants, for pity's sake – denim couldn't hide everything.

Hence, option number two: the pillow.

As if she'd read his bloody mind, Gillian chose that precise moment to snag one from her side of the sofa and toss it at him. It landed squarely in his lap. Bulls-eye.

"Looking for one of these?" she quipped.

While he stared on in self-conscious silence, she tried (but ultimately failed) to keep a straight face. She _tried_ to be subtle and shy and respectful about the whole thing, bless her, but once Cal noticed the way her eyes had _also_ started darting off of every object in the entire room… how she couldn't quite settle down and hold still, much less look anywhere near his face… he knew it would only be a matter of seconds before her attempt at 'respectful' went down in flames.

Sooner or later, one of them needed to break the ice.

Opting for bravery, he took a deep breath and decided to tackle the awkwardness head-on. "Quite the wake-up call, that was," he quipped. Then because he wouldn't be Cal Lightman if he didn't try his hand at some kind of sexual innuendo to break the tension, he said, "Pity that it's probably the most action this old sofa has seen in ages, yeah?"

_Three… two… one…_

It started as soon as their eyes met; they each gave just a tiny smile at first, followed by two broken snorts of laughter (_hers, not his; he did _not_ snort_). Then came a third and a fourth, and finally, when the last traces of 'panic' had completely fled his body and he stopped using humor as a defense mechanism, Cal found himself joining her until they were _both_ laughing and the pounding in his head had subsided to a dull, uncomfortable ache.

What a pair they made. One quasi-hangover, one rogue erection, a double helping of guilt, and a pair of bouncy breasts.

"Listen, I'm sorry about…" The words died on his tongue as he began making a back-and-forth gesture with his hand to cover the distance that still stretched between them. It wasn't much – barely the width of one sofa cushion – but given how close they'd been during the night, he felt bad. As if he'd tossed her aside.

Which, coincidentally, he had.

Gillian waved him off, then handed him a bottle of painkillers she'd pulled from the side table drawer. "Don't worry about it," she said quietly. "No harm, no foul, right? And hey – that was easily the best night's sleep I've had in… well, in months, really, so thank you."

That confirmed it; there was something she wasn't telling him. Something that was hidden behind her polite smile and her warm eyes that he couldn't quite read because the bloody stupid headache was making his brain too foggy. If he'd been thinking logically, he would've realized that the sound of her laughter stopped, completely, at the precise moment she spoke the word "months."

_That_ was the tell.

But he missed it.

Instead, he focused on the fact that she was actually thanking him. That "_she"_ was thanking "_him_." Which was backwards, since _he_ was the guest. _He_ was the one who'd become temporarily homeless.

Alright, fine, that was probably a bit extreme. He had a home; a very nice, very comfortable home.

A very nice, comfortable home filled with Zoe Landau's things… along with an untold number of things that were "theirs." And if Cal knew her as well as he _thought_ he did, then that meant she'd likely be spending the next several hours (if not days) sorting through everything with a fine toothed comb. Separating their assets and tagging everything that was hers. And since he did not give two shits about "stuff," and the only thing he _really_ wanted was joint custody of his daughter, he planned to stay away from the battle grounds until the coast was clear.

Or, until one of the Fosters kicked him out. (Alec, most likely.)

Right on cue, Gillian sighed. As if even the merest thought of Alec Foster's name flickering through his brain brought an unspoken tension to the room and made everything eerily quiet. Too quiet. He couldn't decide if it was a good thing or a bad thing.

"You can relax, Cal, I think he's already gone," she said. Bloody mind reader, she was.

Cal felt an unexpected wave of tension slip into the room and weave between them, until it landed in the center of the empty sofa cushion. She'd turned completely serious, and it made him want to rewind time by five minutes and go back to when they were laughing, just to see her smile again.

"Gone where?" he prodded. It was such a simple question, with so many possible answers. After all, "gone" could've meant almost anything. '_Gone'_ for coffee… '_gone'_ for a run… or, heaven help them both, '_gone'_ like Zoe.

Gillian shrugged, as if the details weren't important. She gave him a small smile, which he knew was simply for his benefit, rather than because she felt like smiling. Obviously, she didn't want him to worry about whatever it was that had suddenly shifted her mood. "His office, I assume. He does that. On Saturdays. He does it a lot."

Short, broken sentences weren't her style, and even though she _sounded_ fine – even though she was still smiling softly and her features looked perfectly calm – Cal's instinct told him she wasn't. But they had 'The Line' (_he hated that bloody thing_), and he knew he needed to respect it, much as it pained him to do so.

He cleared his throat and tried to pretend that he wasn't obsessing over a few dozen different scenarios. "So… this is normal then, is it?" he said, waving his hand in an awkward circle in the air between them. "You, waking up on Saturday mornings alone?"

Gillian bit back a light laugh. "I wasn't exactly alone this morning, now was I?" she quipped. "But yes, it's becoming normal. Alec and I… sometimes we're like ships in the night, you know? We pass each other at home, we grab a few quick phone calls or emails, and that has to be 'good enough.' And no, it's not ideal. But after a few months of barely ever seeing each other, I'm finally getting used to it."

Cal frowned. Nothing about Gillian's explanation sounded… _right_ to him at all. In fact, the whole thing sounded like a story that Gillian had somehow _convinced_ herself was true, just to make reality easier to accept. Like she and Alec had somehow become strangers, and she'd talked herself into believing that it was only a temporary thing.

From his perspective, it was totally baffling. He and Zoe were many things – many destructive things, even – but they had never been strangers. And he certainly never would've guessed that things in the Foster marriage were so far… off track.

Which begged the question… why on Earth would Gillian have wasted the time she _could've_ spent with Alec by coddling her drunken, semi-belligerent, soon-to-be-divorced friend?

Cal knew he had no right to ask – no right to know what went on in their marriage behind closed doors – but he couldn't help himself. He just couldn't. "I know the rules, Gill, and I know I'm not supposed to ask, but… last night. He was here last night, yeah? Why on Earth would you choose…"

He couldn't finish the question. It felt too cruel, because really… how else could he phrase it, except to say, '_Why on Earth would you choose _me_ over _him_?'_

Hindsight made him wish he'd kept his mouth shut, but Gillian didn't seem to mind. She simply shrugged again and gave him a calm, honest answer.

"We all make our choices," she said cryptically. "And I'll have to live with mine, the same way he has to live with his."

The soft smile he'd seen before slowly slipped away, and though she tried to keep her expression as neutral as possible, tiny bits and pieces of each one floated to the surface as he studied her. He couldn't speak… couldn't move… could barely even think, save for the urge to name each successive emotion. All of a sudden, that out-of-character joke she'd made the night before didn't seem so strange.

"_I really don't want to watch the same thing happen to you, yeah? The fighting… the divorce… none of it."_

"_So close your eyes, then. That way you won't have to watch."_

The pessimist in him knew that every single word she'd spoken was far too foreshadowing to be healthy, but the optimist in him didn't have the heart to mention it. Best not to make her feel even worse than she already did.

"Alec never sleeps in on Saturdays," she continued. "Typical 'Type A' over-achiever, I guess. He tells me that he has 'people to impress' and it wouldn't do his career any favors to 'rest on his laurels on his downtime."'

Cal nodded along with her, because everything she said _sounded_ perfectly reasonable. Perfectly logical. Despite the lingering sadness he could still see around her eyes, every words she'd spoken _sounded_ fine.

In the end, though, it was the way she said the last bit of it – about laurels and downtime – that made him bloody positive she'd heard it from Alec himself over and over and over again, until she honestly believed his load of pure, utter crap. Truth be told, Cal probably would've believed it, too, if not for one very important detail: he'd already spotted Alec's briefcase on the other side of the room.

_So much for those people he had to impress…_

It was mostly hidden, tucked behind the bottom shelf of a bookcase near the foyer – in a spot Cal normally wouldn't have seen at all, save for the fact that he'd woken up directly across from it. And upon deciding that Alec Foster was a no good, lying sack of total shit who was totally undeserving of someone as fantastic as Gillian, he said the _very first thing_ that popped into his brain.

"What kind of bloody wanker goes to work on a Saturday when he could stay in bed with you?"

And perhaps he should have realized what those words implied…or how far out of line it was… or the fact that Gillian didn't look even the tiniest bit uncomfortable with what he'd said. But he didn't.

Instead, all of his attention shifted to the feel of her fingers against his arm as she smacked him lightly. _His right arm_ – the one she'd captured earlier, between her breasts. The damn thing still felt as if all the nerve endings were on high alert, and if she smacked it again, well... he might just end up needing to find another pillow.

"_If you recall_," she over-enunciated, trying to counter his argument, "I never made it to bed last night, because I was too busy sleeping on the couch with _you_."

Cal swallowed. That was a very fair point.

When she playfully reached for his arm again, he held his hands up in surrender. "Not my fault, yeah?" he said. "I tried to send you up there. Fair warning, and all that."

Slowly, she withdrew her hand and shifted her body so that they sat cross-legged on opposite ends of the couch, just watching each other. The whole thing felt very… natural. Very normal. And he felt no pressure at all, save for the reminiscent tingling that still fluttered through his arm.

Gillian, on the other hand, had grown tense. He watched as she took a deep breath and let it out slowly through her nose. Her gaze dropped to her lap for just a second, and by the time she looked up at him again, there was a strange sort of tightness around her eyes that he'd never seen before. "Yeah, well… like I said, this is nothing new. I mean, how often do you and I end up at the Group together on the weekends, right?"

That was another very fair point, and so he nodded in agreement again. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.

He certainly didn't want to point out the obvious, which was that the bloody liar she'd married was probably just using his whole 'over-achiever, people-to-impress, briefcase-hiding bullshit to cover up his _real_ tracks. And if Cal Lightman were a betting man – which, coincidentally, he was – he'd have bet his entire bank account that on Saturday mornings, Alec Foster's "office" relocated to someplace that required a lie, just to keep up the pretenses of his wanker-ish 'Type A' lifestyle.

But he didn't tell Gillian any of that.

Instead, he scrambled up off the sofa and turned toward her with an outstretched hand. She accepted it without question – and with a lovely smile on her face that made him wonder just why on Earth anyone would ever want to hurt her – and a beat later, he drew her against his side as he steered them toward her kitchen.

Any serious discussions would just have to wait until after breakfast.

* * *

Cal nudged her into a chair and made short work of opening every cabinet in the room until he found his target: a single can of baked beans, which she kept there just for him. "We can compromise, love," he offered. "_I'll_ introduce _you_ to the art of beans on toast, and _you_ can introduce _me_ to the art of navigating a mall full of teenagers on a Saturday afternoon."

As he busied himself with plates and bread and coffee (which she found exceptionally sweet because Alec never, ever cooked her anything – not even coffee), Gillian was less concerned with the fact that she was about to eat Cal's infamous beans on toast for breakfast, and more concerned with the fact that he wanted to go to the mall.

_Seriously. The mall?_

His wife had left him barely twelve hours earlier, his house was probably being torn apart item by item and either tagged or appraised or whatever method soon-to-be divorced people used to try and divide their 'stuff,' and there he stood: pulling bread from her toaster and happily slathering on a layer of beans.

Clearly, he'd lost his mind.

"I can hear you thinking, Gill," he suddenly insisted. "S'too early for all of that, yeah? We can both deal with reality soon enough, but for now, the answer to your question is 'no."'

He didn't look up from their plates as he spoke – just kept right on slathering and fussing with the coffee that was now ready to pour. Typical Cal.

"I didn't even say anything," she giggled.

He passed her a plate and a mug and then winked at her (_seriously, the man winked_) before pulling his own chair closer to hers than was necessary and tucking into his food. "I've not lost my mind," he said mid-chew. "Not even close."

"Could've fooled me," she answered. "I mean, Zoe's probably got her hands all over your things by now, right? Listen, I saw a sitcom once where the people used these stupid little yellow post-it notes to divide everything. It was totally ridiculous, but my point is valid. I don't want you to go back home and find half of your stuff with tagged with her name, alright? That would just be… wrong."

Gillian's eyes were turned _toward_ her plate and _away_ from his, and she didn't see the puffed-up, proud smile on Cal's face as she lifted the toast toward her mouth. She didn't see it… but she knew it was there.

What she didn't know, however, was that while he was happy to watch her try his favorite meal, he was equally happy to hear the protective edge in her voice when she spoke Zoe's name. A matched set, they were: he was every bit as leery of Alec Foster as _she_ was of Zoe Landau, and if he'd been thinking logically… if he'd ignored the surprised little gasp of _'this-is-actually-much-better-than-I-expected'_ pleasure that came out of Gillian's mouth as she chewed her toast… he would have realized that The Line he hated so bloody badly was starting to blur. Just a little bit.

But he was distracted by the food and by her company, and everything else pretty much blurred into the background.

"Zoe can take it all. Unless you know where I can find a giant yellow tag that I can hang around Emily's neck, well then… not much point going home yet, now is there? And as for the mall… much as I despise the place, I _do_ need a new cell phone. One that can withstand being flung at walls a bit better than the last one, hopefully."

It was the look on Cal's face that did it. Because the moment _could_ have been very tense; it could have been a reminder of everything that had gone wrong in his world – of everything he was afraid of losing. But it wasn't. Leave it to him to actually grin at the memory of a busted phone. At the sheer ridiculousness that had led them there together: two rogue spouses, a few glasses of Scotch, one pending divorce, and worn out old couch.

What a pair they made.

Finishing off the last of her toast, Gillian nudged his shoulder with her own until he turned to face her. "It's a date," she said sweetly. "We'll find you a phone… _I'll_ introduce _you_ to the art of having chocolate cake for lunch… and then we'll find the biggest piece of yellow paper in town."

With his nose wrinkling in half-disgust at the thought of eating chocolate cake for lunch, Cal rolled his eyes. "Yellow paper, love?"

She rinsed their dishes and stacked them neatly in the sink, then smiled at him again. "For Emily," she blushed, because she knew it sounded ridiculous. She knew they couldn't 'tag' the child – that she wasn't property to be put on an asset sheet and be itemized. But she also knew that Zoe Landau would probably try just about anything to keep sole custody, just to hurt Cal. And that simple truth made every single one of her maternal instincts kick into high gear, and it made every ounce of protectiveness she'd ever felt for him overtake her better judgment.

That Line between them? The one that had already started to blur?

It faded just a fraction further when Gillian spoke again.

"Trust me, Cal… I will _not_ let Zoe take that little girl away from you."

* * *

**To Be Continued...**

**(In case you were curious, I haven't forgotten about Zoe. She and Emily are both coming up soon...)**


	7. Chapter 7

Chocolate Oblivion was the most ridiculous looking food (_he used the term loosely_) that Cal had ever seen. Standing three layers tall and filled with chocolate mousse, hot fudge, and dark chocolate shavings, it was an absolute plateful of overkill. And it was all he could do to choke down his half without lapsing into a diabetic coma.

If he'd known that this beast was Gillian's idea of chocolate cake, he never would've agreed to help her eat it. But he'd promised to indulge her, and since she _had _managed to eat beans on toast without laughing _or_ gagging, he rather owed her one.

Diabetic coma, be damned.

"Are you _sure_ you don't want the last bite?" she asked. Her fork was poised directly above it, making a possessive little circle and ready to strike the moment he gave her the green light, so Cal laughed. Gillian Foster might've _sounded_ shy and demure, but he knew her very well: the woman would've likely arm wrestled him to get that chocolate. She was only being polite.

Still laughing, he dropped his fork down onto the plate they'd shared and slouched back into his chair. He felt sick from all the sugar, surprised by the fact that he'd actually eaten it, and entirely amused by the whole scene. Twenty four hours earlier he never would've pictured himself spending Saturday afternoon in a _bloody mall_, eating chocolate cake with Gillian and making small talk as if they didn't have a care in the world.

It felt… strange.

"S'all yours, love," he said. "I swear, Foster, you must have the fastest metabolism of anyone in DC. That's the only possible explanation for how you can eat like…like _this_… and still look like… _that_."

She smiled instantly – a wide, joyful smile that made Cal wonder just how long it had been since someone paid her a compliment like that. And though he should have listened to the tugging in his gut that told him it probably wasn't his place to volunteer one, he didn't. Not yet. Because after all, they _were_ friends – and they had lunch together all the time. They joked and teased and, _yes_, _occasionally_ even flirted, and it didn't mean anything. Not really.

It _never_ meant anything.

"Is that your backhanded way of telling me I look pretty today?" Gillian said innocently. Not as though she were fishing for anything, but rather like she was completely and totally baffled that anyone had noticed her at all.

But of course he noticed. He was married, not blind. And Gillian Foster was… she was… well, _whatever_ she was, '_pretty'_ was a definite understatement.

Not that he'd ever tell her that.

Always a realist, he gave her a half-grunt instead and then fished around in his pocket for his new phone. A wave of nervous tension had hit him out of the blue, and it demanded that he fidget with something. Idle hands… idle mind… definitely a risky combination. Hence, the phone.

He'd gotten no further than powering it on, when Gillian – bless her – opted to change the subject. "I still can't believe you did that," she joked. "Seriously, Cal –you are a born negotiator. One of the best I've ever seen."

With an impish grin, Cal dropped his phone and crossed his hands in his lap. The urge to fidget had passed.

"I believe the correct term is 'Bullshit Artist,' love," he corrected.

She giggled, and the sound of it pulled his grin even wider. "_Whatever_," she sighed. "The point is, you and I both know there's no such thing as a… what did you call it, anyway? A'Spontaneous Thermal Surge?'"

The smugness was practically oozing out of his pores, and his grin now threatened to split his face in two. In his eyes, banter like this was gold. "Aye, aye. You remembered."

_Of course she did._

"As if I could ever forget something like that," she answered. "The whole story is totally ridiculous, and only an idiot would believe it. How on Earth you stood there with a straight face and told that woman…"

"_Jessica_," he corrected. Just because he knew it would drive her a tiny bit mad, and he couldn't resist the urge to tease her. When her eyes narrowed in slight annoyance even as his were alight with mischief, he got the payoff he'd wanted; twisted though it might have been, it was the Cal Lightman version of pulling pigtails, and they both knew it.

Gillian rolled her eyes. "_Fine_. How on Earth you stood there and told _Jessica_ that your phone got so… how did you phrase it, again?"

She paused then, absolutely positive that he would've interrupted her anyway, just because it _was_ his favorite part of the story and she knew he wanted to tell it. Or rather, she knew he wanted to _gloat_ about it. And after waiting just a few short seconds, he jumped in right on cue.

"Bloody scorching, love," he said proudly. The impish grin had grown to the point that he now looked like a total loon; one who was having more fun just sitting there talking to her than he could remember having in ages. Which was strange, because wasn't he _supposed_ to be feeling depressed? Wasn't his marriage falling completely apart?

Hadn't his wife just left him the night before?

Funny how it had taken a Saturday morning with his best friend to make him temporarily forget about everything else.

Unable to see himself from a third person perspective, Cal had _no idea_ that they were beginning to get a few odd looks from the other customers nearby. And he certainly had no idea that they were behaving – for all intents and purposes – like two people who shared more than just friendship and business.

He didn't see it at all, and apparently neither did Gillian. She didn't miss a beat.

"Riigghhtt," she drawled. "Your phone got so '_bloody scorching'_ that you just had to throw it, rather than risk getting burned. And it wasn't your fault that it 'just so happened' to fly into a cinder block wall and crack into six pieces, now was it?"

Admittedly, the whole thing did sound rather ridiculous now that he'd heard her repeat it. And maybe he should have felt guilty for pulling a con job on the young sales rep, but he hadn't been able to help himself. Bullshit Artistry was built into his DNA.

"Can you even imagine?" he said, still teasing her. "Bet Apple would've screwed me over, too. No settlement, no compensation… nothing. Would've been utterly tragic, love. Utterly tragic."

The longer Cal spoke, the more brightly Gillian smiled, and that was the sole reason he continued to keep up with the silly charade. Just because it made her happy. He had no idea that the small group of people who'd been staring at them had now multiplied – that their casual, flirtatious, _friendly_ banter had morphed into lunchtime entertainment for the mall set. Not that it would have stopped him, of course.

But he _might've_ dialed it down a notch.

Maybe.

"You are completely _insane_," Gillian teased. She was smiling at him so brilliantly that he was beginning to feel fuzzy around the edges and the urge to fidget was starting to return. Nervous tension again; the bloody stuff was turning on and off at a whim.

"No one in their right mind would believe that story, and only _you_ would be able to use it to snag a cheap new phone after throwing a _perfectly good one_ against a cinder block wall," she continued.

He scoffed. He was having far too much fun to change the subject, much less admit that she was right. "Well, _Jessica_ believed it, now didn't she."

"Oh please," Gillian said, still laughing even as she rolled her eyes so dramatically that Cal was surprised they didn't pop right out of her head. "'_Jessica' _believed your accent. Your thick, charming, _British_ accent which – just for the record – we _both_ know you embellished. In fact, you 'embellished' your charming British ass off the entire time we were in there, didn't you? Just for the heck of it?"

Cal grinned. She'd put air quotes around the word 'embellished' which he loved, yet let the word 'ass' roll heavy off her tongue. As if she knew she shouldn't say it, but just couldn't seem to help herself. A woman after his own heart, she was.

It was bloody adorable… in that flirtatious, friendly, innocent way that should have made him stop right there in the middle of the conversation, and drop it. But of course he didn't.

"You calling me a liar with a cute ass, Foster?"

_Three… two… one…_

There it was again: Gillian gave him a smile so bright and so brilliant that it nearly split her face in two. _That_ was his payoff. The sight of it made every nauseating bite of chocolate cake totally worthwhile, and right there and then he decided that he'd gladly eat five more slices, just for the chance to that smile again. And even though he should've seen the warning signs – should've heard the clanging in his brain that told him he was now treading on _very_ thin ice – he didn't. He was too busy forgetting that he was _supposed to be_ depressed.

"Well, I'd be the wrong woman to ask about your ass, but as far as the liar part is concerned? Yes, Cal, you're one of the best. And I mean that only the sweetest possible way, of course."

_Of course._

"Sure you aren't just jealous?" he quipped, owning his arrogance and stretching the limits of their friendly conversation about as far as it would go. "After all, Foster, I _am_ on the market again."

That sound he heard? The one in his head… _way _off in the distance?

It was the sound of all that thin ice beginning to crack.

Cal's comment hadn't meant anything. Not really. _He_ knew that, and _she_ knew that, and on the surface everything was perfectly fine. They were still Gillian and Cal – friends and business partners – sharing chocolate cake and banter and a few laughs. Just like always. But her beautiful smile faltered as soon as he said the words 'on the market,' and that alone told him that something had gone wrong.

Trouble was, he had no bloody clue what caused it.

Gillian cleared her throat and a faint blush fanned its way across her face as she gestured toward his right hand. "Yeah, well… your wedding ring says otherwise," she said shyly.

_Talk about a reality check._

Cal felt hot. His face… his hands… everything began to sweat, because bloody hell, she was right. _She was right_. He'd let himself go completely out of line, and the worst of it all was that it had been totally natural.

Bloody hell… was _that_ what Zoe had seen between them all along?

Trying to hide the change in his emotions (_because he didn't quite understand them himself_) Cal shrugged. Two deep, cleansing breaths brought his body temperature back to normal and he glanced down at the gold ring he still wore as if he were seeing it for the first time. "Funny, that," he tried. "Seems the woman who gave it to me would like to renege on the whole deal, yeah?"

Gillian sighed. Her smile was now completely gone, and she looked at him with a sad, soulful expression that bordered on pity. It made him feel about two inches tall. Made him want to hit the rewind button and take them back to where they'd been only a few short moments ago.

"Cal…"

He didn't give her the chance to continue.

Now that thoughts of Zoe had entered his brain, he wasn't in much of a mood to be a gracious listener. And so he waved Gillian's concern away with the back of his hand and propped it up between them, so that his ring finger was right in front of her face. "Trust me, love. She ripped hers off like the damn thing was branding her bloody skin. She couldn't wait to toss it back at me. S'pose I ought to do the same thing."

No one else in the world would've heard the ache in his voice – no one else would've heard the haunting wave of sadness that had gripped him suddenly and without warning. But she did. She heard everything. And so her left hand caught his right, and she gripped it gently. "That's not your style, now is it?" she tried.

Her voice was soft and soothing, but he scoffed. He was still trying to cover his emotions… still trying to pretend that the sight of that ring on his finger hadn't rattled his brain and sent his imagination into overdrive. "You mean revenge?" he quipped. "Must've missed a memo, love, because that is _exactly_ my style. And it's probably at least half the reason she's leaving. Eye for an eye, and all that."

_So much for hiding his emotions. _

Squeezing his fingers, Gillian tried again. "Listen, Cal…"

"I hurt her, Gill. Badly. Fucked it all up, I did," he sighed. And even though his eyes were telling her to leave it alone – to respect his privacy and not ask the question _he knew_ she wanted to ask – she didn't listen.

She couldn't.

Instead, she stroked her fingertips across the back of his hand and searched his expression with warmth in her eyes. "What in the world could you have _possibly_ said that would've sent her away?" she asked gently. "It takes two to tango, right? And it took both of you to reach this point."

He shook his head slightly, letting her know that he appreciated her kindness, but that he didn't agree. "Wouldn't be too sure about that if I were you. I can be a royal ass sometimes, yeah? And I think maybe this time, I pushed things too far."

Cal sighed heavily on the last word, and it struck him that it had only taken a few short minutes to turn their lighthearted lunch on its ear, until things were as far away from 'lighthearted' as they could have gotten. And he felt guilty for bringing Gillian down… guilty for unloading his problems on her when, by all rights, he should have been man enough to handle them himself.

"Don't you think you're being just a little bit hard on yourself?" Gillian prodded. Her thumb was busy stroking tiny circles over the back of his hand, and it threw him off balance – took away a tiny bit of the sting that he'd felt seconds earlier. "I mean, you and I have been partners for years now and you haven't chased me away yet. So tell me – what on Earth do you _think_ you said to Zoe that could've pushed her _this far_ over the edge?"

Bloody hell, he didn't want to tell her. It sounded awful enough in his own head, and giving voice to his idiocy wouldn't do either of them any favors. It wouldn't make anything better.

It wouldn't fix his marriage.

"Come on now, I gave you the bigger half of that chocolate cake and I spent thirty minutes in cell phone hell with… '_Jessica_.' The least you can do is tell me the truth," she prodded, trying to inject a tiny bit of humor to the moment. Just like he would have done for her, had the situation been reversed.

Without even realizing it had happened, or why on Earth he was suddenly feeling relaxed enough to let his walls back down, Cal laced his fingers through hers and shifted his body closer – until their hands rested on the tabletop, near his chest. He took a deep breath, looked Gillian straight in the eye, and opted for total honesty. "I told her she was a bad mother," he said dejectedly.

_Surprise_.

The prominent emotion on Gillian's face was complete and utter surprise, but her words held nothing but kindness. "Listen, Cal… in the heat of the moment, _everyone_ has said something that hit someone else a little below the belt. _Trust me._ We always hurt the ones we love, right?"

'_Drumroll please_,' he thought sarcastically, because she hadn't even heard the real crux of his idiocy yet. Best to save her idioms till the end, just in case she changed her mind and decided to run right out the door out of complete and utter shame.

"I told her she was a bad mother, Gillian," he repeated. "_And then_ I told her that you would have made a better one. That Emily would have…"

As he felt his stomach collapse down into his boots, Cal decided there was no need to finish. The rest was painfully obvious, and if the stunned look on Gillian's face was any indication, she was right there with him, swimming in a mix of shock, disbelief and stupidity.

His stupidity. Not hers.

_As per usual._

With his anxiety at an all-time high because Gillian hadn't managed to speak a single word, Cal's urge to fidget kicked into high gear. He bounced his knee… cracked his knuckles… drummed his fork against the edge of their dessert plate in time to some random rhythm in his overactive mind. And then, when the silence between them began to make him feel utterly paranoid, he fell back into one of his old habits: self-depreciation.

Old habit died hard, apparently.

"Like I said, Foster… I fucked it all up."

It felt like hours until he found the courage to look up at her – until the constant, reassuring touch of her fingers against his finally convinced him that the world was not about to implode just because he'd said something so epically inappropriate.

To his wife. _His wife_, of all people.

Jesus, he was a mess.

And yet… there Gillian sat, right beside him. Holding his hand, and looking at him like she felt every bit as drained and confused as he did, and making his chest clench in that odd way again. The way that should have reminded him of all the cracked ice they were standing on.

The way that _should have_ reminded him to pull himself together and throw his walls back up, before their bloody 'Line' disappeared altogether.

_But_… he chalked it up to panic, reminded himself that he trusted Gillian, and tried to calm the hell down. The fact that she still hadn't spoken didn't make any of that easier, either.

"Cal…"

_Wait a minute_. Was she actually…?

Surely he was seeing things. Surely this was all just his imagination playing tricks on him. Because there was _no bloody way_ Gillian Foster was sitting there with him, crying so softly he almost didn't hear her, because of what he'd just said.

_Was there?_

"Cal… I…"

Oh Jesus, she _was_. Gillian _was_ crying. She tried to hide it – tried to pretend that there was just something in her eye – but he knew better. He knew _her_. And so he blinked, totally mystified and partially nauseous because he knew that she was about to tell him something big. Something _epically_ big. And obviously, it tied in to what he'd just confessed – about her being a good mother and Zoe being a bad one, and he had _no bloody clue_ what on Earth she was about to say.

All he knew was that if his pathetic confession had just ruined his friendship with Gillian, then he'd likely want to find the nearest bridge and jump.

"I never told you," she said quietly. So quietly that he wouldn't have heard the words at all if he hadn't drawn himself even closer to her out of raw fear.

"Tell me what, Gill?"

He noticed more tears, then. They hadn't fallen, but he could see them pooled at the corners of her eyes, just waiting for gravity to take over.

"We didn't tell anyone, you know? Not anyone. The doctors… they warned us not to get our hopes up. Said that if we made it to the second trimester then the risks went down a bit, and maybe then we could start…"

Heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears, Cal felt like he might actually vomit. He felt faint, and hot, and insanely protective of her… and every single emotion in his body was fighting to come out at the same time, until the only productive thing he managed to do was take her _other_ hand in his and squeeze. Words were completely impossible.

"We made it to week eleven, but…"

Instantly, the taste of bile rose up into the back of his throat. It was the most horrible, heartbreaking thing he'd ever heard, and now that he had the chance to really _see_ her – now that he'd forgotten all about his problems and was fully focused on hers – she looked broken.

It scared the hell out of him. She'd done such a good job of hiding everything that it made him wonder what else she'd been keeping bottled up, just to protect herself.

Gillian took deep breaths… in through her nose and out through her mouth, as if the weight of the secret she'd kept had been slowly suffocating her. And Cal had no idea what to say. _None_. Because there simply no '_right'_ words to use to tell her that if anyone in the entire world deserved a chance at motherhood, she did. And the fact that the chance had been stolen from her was utterly, sickeningly cruel.

When she was finally breathing normally again, and the tracks of the few tears that _had_ finally fallen were beginning to dry, she shrugged. "I wanted to tell you," she started. "Because I was so happy, and I knew you would be happy for me, but then… afterward… I just… I just didn't want anyone looking at me like…"

Cal shuddered. Despite the heat in the room, his insides felt icy cold. "Like what, love?"

She shrugged again, as if she was almost embarrassed by whatever she was about to tell him. "Like it was my fault."

_Bloody hell…_

With those five short words, Cal felt as though he could not get close enough to her. That simply holding her hands was not enough – it wasn't even close – and he wanted to hold _her body_, to comfort her, to take away all the traces of pain he could still see in her eyes, then find whatever heartless bastard had put it in her head that _she_ was to blame for her own miscarriage, and rip them limb from limb.

"Why would _anyone_ ever think it was your fault?" he asked quietly.

And then right in the middle of a busy restaurant on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, completely mindless of all the people around them and how out of place it looked, Gillian spoke three short words that would cut him to the quick. "Why wouldn't they?" she countered.

As if she'd asked herself the very same question a thousand times before.

She was squeezing his hands so bloody tightly that he'd lost circulation in his fingertips, but he was loathe to mention it, for fear she'd pull away from him entirely. Which was the very last thing he wanted. "Gillian, you…"

That was as far as he got before she looked away. "He said that I wasn't ready. That I was too busy with cases… too busy catching liars… too busy helping you run the Group. That I didn't take care of myself, and that I wouldn't have had any time to spend with a baby anyway. He said that it was probably all for the best."

That thin ice he'd been treading? The same ice that had begun cracking such a short time ago?

It was now completely shattered.

And in that moment, Cal Lightman did not care about The Line… he did not care about marriages or divorce or anything, really, save his blinding desire to make Gillian feel better. Because she was the best friend he'd ever had in his _entire life_ and he wanted to protect her from everything – from pain and heartache and sadness, because she bloody deserved that much. She deserved happiness. And listening to a first-hand account of the way a man like Alec Foster ripped her heart out of her very chest, just to assuage his own pain? Well, that was just about the hardest thing Cal had ever done. And trust him, if he could have gotten away with it, he would have hunted the bastard down and broken every bone in his pathetic body.

But since he couldn't very well do any of that, he settled for the next best thing.

Without giving a second thought anyone who might've seen them, Cal stood and pulled Gillian upward right along with him, until he was able to fold her right into his body – right against his chest – and he wrapped his arms around her as tightly as they would go.

They'd never needed words, anyway. And the sentiment that came from his heart – the one that was quite literally pounding straight out of his chest and into hers – spoke volumes.

It told her everything; that it wasn't her fault, and that she'd get another chance.

And as they stood there… in the middle of the restaurant, in the middle of the mall, in the middle of a Saturday afternoon… Gillian felt herself begin to heal.

Moments later, when Cal felt her breathing return to normal and her heart rate begin to slow, he finally relaxed his grip on her body just enough to pull back and look into her eyes. They were red rimmed and watery. And despite the sadness he could still read around the edges, they were still one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen.

"Thank you, Cal," she said shyly. Then she took a single, tiny step backward and spoke the words that he'd remember in detail for months to come.

"I know it's completely wrong of me to feel this way, but what you said to Zoe? What you said about me being a good mother? That was… that was the _sweetest_ thing anyone has said about me in a very long time. And it was exactly what I needed to hear."

In that moment, Cal had no way of knowing how things would change between them. And he had no way of knowing that the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach – the one that seemed to intensify _every single time_ she smiled at him, or touched him, or… _anything, really_ – would soon become as intrinsic as his own heartbeat.

He should have realized it. He should have realized that things were beginning to… grow.

But he didn't.

Instead, he stepped toward her – erasing the distance that she'd put between them mere seconds earlier – and spoke in a quiet, confident tone. "Meant every word of it, Gill."

And then despite every instinct that told him he was about to overstep the mark, he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against her cheek. "Every single word."

* * *

**_A/N: Thanks for reading! _**

**_(Chapter 8 coming soon, and fair warning... it's full of Zoe.)_**


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: Thank you again to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, or messaged me. I can't even begin to properly explain how much I appreciate it! Also, special thank you to solveariddle, who has been amazingly supportive and humored my crazy ramblings... one of the lines near the middle of the chapter comes courtesy of her. I paraphrased it, but she's the brain behind it. Many thanks! (And just to be clear, the A/N at the end of the chapter will credit the specific line.)**_

_**Thanks for reading!**_

* * *

It was the walk that gave him away; the confident swagger he put into each step that somehow made him look at least six inches taller than he actually was.

She would've recognized it anywhere.

Years earlier, back when they were just '_Zoe and Cal'_ and the prospect of a life lived together was _almost_ as exciting as finding out they were pregnant, Zoe would've readily admitted that it was the first thing about him that caught her eye. Not the accent… not the warmth in his smile, or his brilliant mind, or his fantastic sense of humor. It was the walk… the confidence he'd always exuded, even from the first moment they met. It had been… magnetic.

Fast forward through ten years of a marriage that ultimately failed, she still felt it. That possessive pull in her gut that made her think – just for a split second, before her hormones caught up with reality and she realized she was hovering right at the edge of total insanity – that Cal Lightman was, quite possibly, the sexiest man she'd ever seen.

The anger didn't hit her for a full moment later, when she noticed _who_ he was with (Gillian, of course), and _where_ he was touching her. Then she decided that he wasn't sexy at all.

Not one tiny, little bit.

_Instead_, she decided that he was the most repulsive, most infuriating man on the face of the Earth, and that their divorce could not come fast enough.

God, she _hated_ that he could do that to her. That he could make her feel… _everything_, from arousal to rage and back again, without even trying. _Yes_, their attraction had been (and to some degree, still _was_) magnetic, but their tendency to ruin each other was equally as strong. They were far too similar and unable to compromise on anything, and unless they were actually _having sex_, most of the time they spent together ended in a shouting match.

Fire and ice… oil and water… Zoe and Cal.

Cal and _Gillian_, on the other hand, were like peanut butter and jelly; they just… _fit_. It was nauseating.

As she stood there – watching the way Cal's hand fluttered against Gillian's arm over and over again, before he finally gave up the pretenses and tossed it around her shoulders – Zoe was left with a two-fold problem. _One_: Unless some kind of minor miracle fell into her lap in the next few seconds, she knew there was no possible way to avoid them – or, avoid having what would likely go down as the most awkward conversation of her life. And _two_: Pretending to be nice and polite and _gracious_ in front those two human lie detectors was going to be nearly impossible.

_As in_, hell would probably freeze over before she'd ever be able to pull it off.

But… since the last thing she wanted was to do was become the 'bad guy' in Emily's eyes, she didn't have any other option but to try. So she swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth, put on her best fake smile, and said, "Looks like your father's here with Gillian today, Em. Now isn't _that_ a nice surprise?"

So far, so good. Or at least that's what Zoe thought, until a few seconds later when Emily looked up at her with big, soulful eyes that looked exactly like her father's, and asked the kind of cut-to-the-chase question that only an eleven year old could ask.

"Why do you hate her so much, mom?"

To anyone around them, her reaction must've looked completely ridiculous. Because as soon as Emily asked that question, Zoe stopped dead in her tracks – right there in the middle of the walkway – and clutched one hand over her chest in absolute shock. Her mouth dropped open and she started sputtering random syllables in random, nonsensical patterns because all of a sudden, she couldn't make her brain function well enough to speak in _words_.

When she finally managed to blink and breathe again simultaneously, the very first thing that caught her attention was Emily – sweet, insightful, _perceptive_ Emily – who was standing right there with a knowing look on her face, just waiting for a legitimate answer to her question.

Trouble was, Zoe couldn't find one that didn't make her sound like a selfish, jealous idiot. After all, something along the lines of '_I hate her because your father secretly loves her'_ was definitely not appropriate. And so, she opted for one of Cal's favorite moves: a deflection.

Intentionally softening her features, Zoe looked down at her daughter with a gentle smile. "'Hate' is such a strong word, sweetheart. What makes you think I feel that way about Gillian?"

Emily sighed, trying to backpedal just a little bit... trying to figure out exactly what words she could use that wouldn't upset her mother, but that would explain why she'd asked the question in the first place. "Dad showed me that book once," she said simply. "The one with all the faces, that shows how to tell which muscles match up with which feelings. He showed me love, hate, happiness, and anger. And I just… I noticed that every time you see Gill, your face looks just like the photos in his book."

Whatever Zoe had expected to hear, it certainly wasn't that. And since she had absolutely no idea what the 'right' thing to say actually was, or how in the world she would possibly talk her way around such a delicate subject, she tried asking Emily questions instead. "You do mean _all_ of the feelings, don't you?" she prodded. "Sometimes I might show anger and… hate, but sometimes I show happiness, right?"

Because surely, that was it. Surely, Emily was just being a typical kid and only giving about half the details. Surely her feelings for Gillian Foster hadn't become _that_ obvious.

Had they?

A beat later, when Emily pointedly looked down and away before replying, Zoe had her answer. Even she'd learned enough about Cal's science to know what that maneuver meant: avoidance.

"Well… in the beginning, it was always anger," Emily quietly explained. "But lately…"

Zoe's stomach dropped into her shoes. Because Emily Lightman loved Gillian Foster almost as much as Cal unknowingly did, and that look on her face – the innocent, wide-eyed look that reminded her of Cal in a thousand different bittersweet ways – would've told anyone that she didn't understand how it could even be possible to _hate_ Gillian.

And so by the time she was able to voice the next question, Zoe felt about two inches tall. "But lately _what_, Em?"

Emily shrugged, still somehow unable to look up and meet her mother's eyes. "Lately it's… not."

Zoe frowned. She'd never been good at this side of parenting – the '_human'_ side. She found it very difficult to stay relatable, even to her own child, because she was always stuck full throttle in 'grown up' mode. It was next to impossible for her to drop her guard enough to let Emily see that she had flaws.

As fate would have it, the 'human' side of parenting happened to be Cal's forte. And yes, she knew that sounded completely ridiculous on paper, because _he_ was the one who was typically guarded. He was the one still carrying around a lifetime's worth of emotional baggage, courtesy of an abusive father and a suicidal mother, while she had grown up in a stable home with both parents, a trust fund, and family vacations twice a year.

_Norman Rockwell_ versus the _School of Hard Knocks_, so to speak.

And_ on paper_, Zoe knew it made perfect sense for _her_ to be the open one – the emotionally available parent, always ready for heart to heart chats and rhetorical debate. But she wasn't.

Not even close.

_In_ _reality_, Cal was a natural at this side of fatherhood. The '_human'_ side. Despite his difficult childhood (or possibly because of it), he had no trouble discussing anything with Emily – anything at all. He'd gladly drop whatever he was doing, day or night, just to talk to her… to teach her… so that she always knew he loved her, and that she was the most important part of his life.

On the flip side, Zoe functioned in 'to-do' lists, deadlines, and details (the term 'cold fish' wasn't much of an exaggeration), while Cal had no problems connecting with the humanity of any given situation. He didn't _like_ to show his vulnerable side to most people… but once he did – once he trusted them with the 'real' Cal, the connection was impossible to break.

_Trust_. That word had always been a bone of contention between them, and even though she had accused him of never being able to trust anyone, he did. Deep down, she knew he did. Emily, most of all… and Gillian. That's all. It was a very short list.

The translation? As Zoe stood there in the middle of the hallway, in the middle of the mall, on a busy Saturday afternoon, her instincts told her to be concerned with only two things: getting information out of Emily, and doing damage control, just to save face. To wrap up the problem in a neat bow, stamp 'complete' on it, and file it away. Because that was simply how she functioned. Details and deadlines, even then.

_But Cal? _

Cal would've seen the hurt and confusion in Emily's eyes, and he would not have felt the need to 'save face' about anything. He would've happily indulged her with a gigantic slice of chocolate cake for lunch, and then spend an hour discussing how sometimes people were neither bad nor good – they were just human. That was _his_ version of damage control, and Zoe knew it was better.

Slowly but surely, the frown she'd worn morphed into a tense, tired smile and she sighed heavily. The line she now needed to walk with Emily would no doubt be a difficult one, but in light of the custody suit that would soon be in motion, she needed to learn to navigate it well. Hate was one of the strongest, most erosive emotions in the human condition, and Zoe didn't know whether to be disgusted with herself for allowing her own emotions to open this door… or whether to be disgusted with Cal for unloading all of his pseudo-scientific micro-expression bullshit on their little girl.

Maybe it was a bit of both.

Careful to keep her voice as relaxed as possible (lest Emily have learned vocal-reading tricks from Gillian), she tried her hand at another simple question. "Your father showed you that, did he?" she asked. _Baby steps._

Emily nodded, and the timid expression on her face made it obvious that she was just as uncomfortable with the conversation as Zoe was. "He showed me the book, but… I figured out the thing with your face by myself."

"Is that so?" she said. To her credit, she was still trying to be as nonchalant as possible – to pretend the entire conversation wasn't happening at all, just to avoid overreacting to anything Emily might tell her. And for the first few moments, everything went according to plan.

But as soon as curiosity drew her eyes away from Emily's face and down the hallway to the point where Cal stood with his arm around Gillian – smiling and laughing with her, and standing so close together that only an idiot would have ever believed them to be 'just friends' – all bets were off. She just… cracked.

And of course, Emily noticed. She easily caught the clenched fist, and the piercing frown, and the narrowed brows that were all textbook examples (literally) of every single emotion Zoe had been trying to deny. And to that end, an eye-roll of epic proportions prefaced the girl's reply. Zoe wasn't fooling _anyone_ anymore.

"_Come on_, mom," she started. "Just because I'm only eleven, that doesn't mean I'm stupid. I see things, okay?"

Thrown off balance by the truth behind Emily's comment, Zoe faltered. "What kind of things?"

Emily shrugged. "Just things. Like a few minutes ago, when you mentioned dad? I saw anger then, and a little bit of sadness. But each time you mention Gillian, it's never sadness, and it's never anger. All I ever see is… "

_Jesus, she felt about two inches tall._ Oddly humiliated and somewhat remorseful, because as she stood there, trying to pretend they were still having a normal conversation – trying to save face, and protect her image, and worry about what she might be forced to _say_ in front of her soon-to-be ex-husband and his… _Gillian…_, sweet, innocent Emily was able to see the truth from a hundred yards away.

It was… humbling.

Raising a gentle hand to Emily's shoulder, Zoe stopped her daughter before she could finish. "You don't need to say it again, sweetheart," she said softly. "I remember."

* * *

Zoe felt awkward. Clearly, this was Cal's domain – not hers. He was the smooth talking, ultra-relatable fun dad in their daughter's eyes. The guy who gave her ice cream for breakfast once a month, and let her stay up late sometimes, just because it made her happy. The guy who took her to Gillian Foster's house to bake cookies and watch movies and do all the domestically 'girly' things Zoe despised, and he would've known exactly what to say. How to move them from "Point A," where Cal Lightman and Gillian Foster were standing on the other side of the hallway, to "Point B," where they just went right up to 'Dad and Gillian,' and had a nice, family chat. To hell with saving face, and being embarrassed, and to hell with placing blame. He would've steamrolled over all of those things and gotten right down to business.

But Zoe was not Cal. Her personality type was entirely different… her parenting style was entirely different… and she was just as hardwired to place blame as he was to spot lies. So, when young Emily had finally grown tired of their impromptu game of twenty questions in the middle of the walkway and she was the one who changed the subject, Zoe was grateful. Because whatever came next, it could not possibly be as awkward as trying (_and failing_) to pretend she did not hate Gillian Foster.

"Hey mom?" Emily asked. "Are we ever going to go over there and talk to them, or are we going to stay over here and hide all afternoon?"

As soon as the question hit the air between them, Zoe cringed. Trust a miniature version of Cal to find the one thing she desperately did _not_ want to do, and frame it in such a way as to make it almost impossible to refuse. It was the proverbial 'rock and a hard place' situation, and getting out of it was going to be next to impossible.

Still, she had to try.

"We aren't hiding, alright?" Zoe she said, hoping to deflect her way out of the hot seat before Emily noticed what she was doing. "We are… just giving them their space."

Emily wrinkled her nose immediately, as if the words Zoe had chosen actually smelled bad. "That's the same thing as hiding. You just made it sound prettier."

_A miniature version of Cal, indeed._

By the time Zoe's brain had become fully functional again, Emily had already started making a beeline toward her father, and it was obvious that their conversation was finished. So much for saving face, or avoiding confrontation… apparently the best she could hope for was to make it through the afternoon with her sanity intact. And as she resigned herself to the task at hand and hurried to catch up with Emily – utterly amazed that neither Cal nor Gillian had spotted them yet – she couldn't resist asking one last question, just for the hell of it.

"Emily, I'm just curious," she started. "What did your father say when you mentioned all of this to him?"

The young girl didn't even slow down. She simply shrugged – as if she couldn't even understand why Zoe was asking the question in the first place – and said, "I never told him."

"Well, why not,Em? It sounds to me like you're a natural, just like him," Zoe offered sincerely. "Why wouldn't you tell him what you saw?"

Smiling bashfully, Emily glanced around them and purposely lowered her voice so that no one else but Zoe could hear what she was about to say. "Because he can probably see it for himself," she answered. "And since Gill's his best friend, I thought it would make him sad if I said anything."

Zoe blanched. Whatever she'd expected Emily to say, it was obviously not that. And so she only managed a single word. "Sad?"

"It's just like what you guys always told me, remember?" she explained. "'If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.' And I think that's really good advice. Don't you?"

Emily paused then, studying the look of utter remorse that crossed Zoe's face before speaking the words that would hit her like a kick to the stomach. "Just for the record, mom?" she said shyly. "I also think that maybe grown-ups need to hear it sometimes, too."

* * *

**_(A/N: "...sometimes people were neither bad nor good – they were just human." The credit for that line belongs to solveariddle - thanks again for letting me borrow it.)_**


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N: I just wanted to apologize for the delay in posting this chapter - I was on a little road trip, and have fallen behind with work and just life in general. There shouldn't be a very long wait for the next one, though. Also, I don't think I had the chance to personally reply to each review, but I will - it's just taking me longer than I expected to get back to my routine. Please know that every message and review is much appreciated! Also, just a quick explanation... this is still very much a "Callian" story. I promise. It's just that for some reason, my 'muse' is determined to write about them from this angle, rather than from the post-Killer App timeline that I've followed before. Stick with me, guys. The payoff will be there - I promise. :)**_

* * *

Gillian had gone from depression and sadness, to… _this_ (whatever the hell it was), in a matter of minutes, and the transition had happened so seamlessly that Cal's brain felt fuzzy and he wasn't quite sure how to keep up. Nothing in his past prepared him for what to say to a woman (his best friend, no less), who'd just told him about her miscarriage, and he wasn't at all confident about having a dry run at it now.

No way.

Conversations did not come with 'undo' buttons, and the last thing Cal wanted to do was mess it up and cause her even more pain. '_Open Mouth, Insert Foot'_ was often his default setting, and he wasn't about to run the risk of playing that card with her.

So without much thought at all, and driven by his intrinsic need to comfort her _somehow_, his hands found her arm… then her back… then her shoulders. It was almost as if he was trying to find a foothold, since what he really wanted to do was just stand there and hug her all day, and obviously, that was not practical at all. Much as he wished it were.

Driven by habit, Gillian tried to deny him. She flittered away from his touch like a startled butterfly, hell bent on compartmentalizing even this, now that the moment had passed. She tried to pretend that everything was just fine… that _she_ was just fine, and she didn't need his reassurances.

"_Tried_" being the key word, because it didn't work at all. He knew her well enough to see past the shallow, polite smile that didn't even come close to reaching her eyes, past the gracious nod of her head as she ducked away from his fingertips. Obviously, she was used to handling this group of demons alone. Pain, heartbreak, bitterness… all of it. That much he knew.

_But_…

But she'd let him in – _she_ had let _him_ in – and it took him all of a microsecond to decide that the bloody Line didn't really count, and he really _could_ do something to try and help her, rather than just abide by their imaginary boundaries and pretend he hadn't seen all of her 'tells.'

So he was persistent. Stubborn. And not in an over-the-top, manhandling kind of way… but rather a '_give-it-up-love, I'm-not-going-anywhere-and-you're-still-safe-with- me-so-let-me-help-you'_ kind of way.

No pressure.

By the time he finally gave up the pretenses and just pulled her against his side, Cal felt her body relax against his completely. Just like she'd done on the sofa, and just like she'd done when he hugged her in the restaurant. The shallow smile deepened, the flittering movements calmed, and the look in her eyes morphed from self-conscious embarrassment, to definite relief.

She took a single, deep breath and reached one hand up to cover his where it rested on her shoulder. "I really _am_ fine, you know. I didn't mean to make you worry. It's been a few months, and I'm dealing with it, and… I'm fine."

It was a half-truth, obviously. She really hadn't meant to make him worry, but they both knew she was anything but "fine." Bloody compartmentalization again. In this case, it was just a fancy pseudo-scientific word for "lie" that left a bitter taste in his mouth and made him wonder what else in her life she was "_dealing with_."

Cal knew there were only two ways his reply could go: he could either nod along with her in mindless agreement of every single word she'd said, OR… he could point out the one, tiny detail that would drive his point home without coming off as though he were rubbing salt in her wound.

But he'd never been one for mindless agreement about anything, much less this, and so he chose the latter.

"You said '_I_.' Not '_we_,' yeah?"

It was only six short words, but his gentle implication was obvious and as soon as she recognized it, her grip on his hand tightened automatically.

"Again with the worrying, I see," she said. Trying to make a joke, even though the circumstances didn't really call for it. "Why is it _I'm_ supposed to listen when you tell me to stop doing that, but with _you_, all bets are off?"

"Infuriating, yeah?" he answered, just because he knew it would make her smile. Just to tell her that yes, he knew it sounded hypocritical, but no, he didn't care. Double standard, be damned.

By the time Cal noticed what she was doing, their awkward little shuffle-hug walk had slowed to a stop, and Gillian turned to face him with the genuine smile he'd hoped to see. If he could have seen himself from a third-person perspective, he would've laughed at how utterly and completely blind they were being. Standing in the middle of the walkway, surrounded by dozens of strangers, and lost in their own little world. Her hand on his chest, and his on the small of her back – as if they had all the time in the world to simply be there together, communicating in a silent language that no one else could even understand.

He would have laughed until tears ran down his bloody cheeks, because the whole thing looked like some kind of movie cliché. Sappy and sweet and just… anything but platonic, really.

But he didn't see it. He didn't pay much attention to where _her_ hand was, or how _his_ had started to move in tiny, soothing circles… _or_ how she was still smiling at him as if he'd said the sweetest thing in the entire world, rather than a bumbling, two word joke. Instead, every single one of his senses focused on the words that came out of her mouth, and the depth of emotion he saw on her face when she spoke them.

"Eccentric and over-protective to the core, but on _you_?" she said, poking a single finger into his chest just as she'd done in her living room the night before. Just for emphasis, because she knew it would make him smile. "On you… somehow it just '_works_.'"

_Poke, poke._

Cal grinned. "Aye, aye. Are you trying to tell me I wear my eccentricity well, love?" he said.

Right on cue, Gillian giggled. "Bigger picture, Cal," she quipped. "What I'm trying to say is…"

She was doing her best to ignore his waggle-y eyebrows and his impish smile – that much was obvious. And somehow he'd managed to slide his hand from the small of her back to the top edge of her left hip, without either of them realizing it had started to move. But then he accidentally squeezed his fingers against that hip, thereby drawing two pairs of widened eyes downward simultaneously, to the point where his right hand splayed against dips and curves that were most certainly _off limits_.

_Interesting. _

How the bloody hell had that happened, anyway?

And more importantly, why hadn't either one of them noticed what was happening until it… already happened? Yes, it was all perfectly innocent, and accidental, and a few dozen other things that could all be classified as 'platonic,' but the ease with which they'd happened made his head spin. It just felt… _natural_.

As soon as _that_ particular realization hit him, he started to fidget. He shifted and gestured and stuttered at her, finally having sense enough to shove both hands into his pockets and take a half-step backwards. He needed distance – emotionally and physically – so he could clear his head and gather his thoughts, and understand that touching her… _like that_… shouldn't happen again.

Impropriety… compartmentalization… two marriages, and all that.

He still hated the sound of that word, but in that moment – as he stood there trying (_and ultimately failing_) to hide the look of shame from Gillian's perceptive eyes – Cal decided that maybe it would be a bloody brilliant thing to try. Because in all honesty, if this was going to be his new reality… this constant stream of what-if's, and should-not's that had been swimming through his brain since yesterday… then his sanity didn't stand a chance in hell of remaining intact.

At this rate, he'd be bloody bonkers by the time the ink on his divorce papers was dry.

_If not sooner._

While he was busy over-analyzing everything, Gillian was busy looking at him with wide, pained eyes that told him he was doing a total shit job of hiding the shame he still felt. Of course she had no way of knowing exactly what was going through his mind, but she definitely knew it centered on his reaction to touching her.

She reached for his arm, but he pulled it away at the last second, before she made contact. He was jumpy. Even more fidgety than usual, and feeling like a total wanker for not being able to control anything – not even his own body. "Listen Gillian, maybe we should just…"

"Bigger picture, remember?" she said soothingly. "What I was trying to say, was 'thank you.'"

He just blinked at her. "For what?"

She shrugged. "For making me feel safe enough to let my walls down sometimes."

And just like that, he smiled. "Likewise."

* * *

"I really _am_ fine, you know."

It was at least the fifth time she'd made that exact comment, and he was no closer to believing it now than when he'd first heard it. Partly because of that bloody one-sided shrug she kept making, and partly because of the way she over-emphasized the word "fine." As if making it _sound_ happy somehow made her _feel_ the same way.

If only it were that easy.

"No dice, love," he sighed. "Much as I wish those words were true, you and I both know they aren't. Not yet."

Gillian sighed. "So you've added psychic to your resume, then?" she quipped, trying to deflecting her way around the subject, just like he would've done. Just like he always did, whenever he didn't want to confront his own demons.

"S'that code for '_Back off, Lightman, you're too close to the truth and I'm too stubborn to admit you're actually right about this one_," or… something else?"

"You know I could make some kind of over-the-top comment about how hilarious it is for _you_ to call anyone stubborn, but I won't."

He grinned. "Much appreciated."

"But you _do_ have to give me a at least a little credit, alright? I'm tough. And even though I might not be perfectly fine yet… one day, I will be. Trust me."

His grin softened into an expression of genuine concern, and though he knew he shouldn't make the comment at all, he couldn't seem to stop himself. "It's not you I don't trust, love. It's Alec."

_Three… two… one…_

He wasn't exactly sure what he expected her to say, but he was caught completely off guard when she answered him without a hint of anger in her voice at all. No regret… no sadness… just truth.

"It's like I told you before," she said quietly. "I have to live with my choices, and he has to live with his."

Cal knew her answer should have been good enough – that he was really pushing the envelope by hammering his point any further – but he couldn't help himself. "Being an absentee spouse, you mean? Being cruel enough to imply that everything you've been going through – alone, mind you – was somehow a good thing because you were too busy with me to…"

Obviously frustrated but aware that he was only trying to protect her, Gillian interrupted him by abruptly turning to place one hand on his chest, palm down. Not pushing… not poking… just resting there as if they did this sort of thing all the time. Had a heart-to-heart conversation about their marriages in the middle of a bloody shopping mall. For a brief moment, his eyes were drawn downward by the flutter of her fingertips against his shirt. It was… oddly comforting, and yet vaguely distressing all at the same time. Too 'new' to be healthy, yet too familiar to raise any red flags.

"Yeah, well, your wife didn't exactly have the nicest things to say about you last night, either, but I'll bet the Group's entire bank account that you still love her. Don't you?"

And there it was… the million dollar question, which he did not want to answer. Not at all. It was a veritable mine field, and he was hardly prepared to walk through it. And so, he got creative.

"S'not a very risky bet, that one," he quipped. "Last I checked, the company finances were blood red." He was deflecting his arse off and hoping she'd be kind enough to ignore it. But she didn't.

_Of course_ she didn't.

She simply nodded, and he felt the pressure of her fingertips increase against his chest. "The last time I checked, it's not a good idea to use deflection techniques when your debate partner knows exactly what you're doing and why you're doing it."

_Poke, poke._

Well aware that hiding from the truth would only make her more determined to hear it, Cal sighed. "Point taken, then. S'pose you could let me plead the fifth? Refusal to answer on the grounds that it'll make me sound like a royally pathetic bastard?"

Gillian rolled her eyes and gave him a look that was part exasperation, part gentle humor. "I wouldn't go that far, Cal. After all, emotions don't come with switches that you can just turn on and off at will. We both know they are crazy, complex, multi-layered beasts that continue to grow and evolve and…"

"…Mutate?" he interrupted.

There was another eye roll, followed by a dramatic sigh. "Yes, fine… _mutate_… throughout the entire course of a relationship. 'Pathetic bastard' couldn't be further from the truth. Trust me."

He sighed. "Right, then. So you're saying I'm _not_ abnormal?"

"Again, I wouldn't go that far," she laughed, trying to steer him away from the self-depreciation that he often favored and back towards neutral ground. Neither of them seemed to notice that she was still touching his chest – smoothing over imaginary wrinkles and fidgeting in random ways that made _his_ bottom lip twitch involuntarily, and _her_ eyes sparkle with a tiny bit of mischief as she waited for his reply.

"Mean one, you are."

"I'm just saying… don't hold _me_ to a certain standard, when you can't even meet it yourself," she said.

She'd expected him to be somewhat defensive, or to try and deflect again, or to change the subject entirely. But he didn't. Instead, he simply cocked his head and smiled at the honest words she'd spoken. "Meaning _what_, Gill?" he asked.

"_Meaning_… I think a part of you will always love Zoe. Your heart decided that a long time ago, and it can't be 'undone' just because she changed her mind about your marriage."

"You have such a romantic way of telling me I'm screwed," he quipped.

Though Cal's tone of voice made it clear he wasn't upset with her at all, Gillian wanted to kick herself for the way she'd chosen her words. They sounded much more… _final_… than she'd intended, and even though her brain knew she was overreacting, her heart pushed the words out of her mouth too quickly to take them back. "I didn't mean it like that at all," she said. "I just meant… well, I just meant that Zoe's lucky. She's lucky to have someone in her life that loves her as much as you do. Not everyone has that, Cal – some people never find it at all, and others are so busy holding on to something that's so much _less_ than they deserve, because they're afraid to take a risk and face an unknown future. And even if she can't see it for what it is now, believe me… one day she will."

* * *

"_Even if she can't see it for what it is now, believe me… one day she will."_

There was an undeniable measure of hope in Gillian's sentence that made his imagination kick into overdrive almost immediately. In the back of his mind, he wondered what she really meant… and how she really meant it… and more importantly, why she could no longer seem to meet his eye. She'd gone from flirtatious, to honest, to shy in seconds, and though two of the three were likely to lead them to dangerous territory (again), he opted to jump in with both feet and take his chances that the honesty angle would still hold for a bit longer.

"And on your end?" he prodded. "Things with you and Alec?"

As soon as that name registered – _Alec_ – Gillian shrugged and finally, _finally_,let her hand drop away from his chest. "He's human, just like I am," she said. "He's made mistakes, just like I have. But in the end, as long as there's even a hint of the man I married, and he's just as willing to fight for this as I am, then I think we owe it to ourselves to see where it goes."

For reasons Cal couldn't even begin to explain – even to himself – the truth behind her answer left him feeling decidedly… hollow. "So then… you're going to try again?" he asked. "And you're still willing to fight?"

She nodded. "We have options. Fostering, and adoption, and IVF. It's a lot to process, but… _maybe_. We're talking about it now, at least. So I guess that's a little progress, right?"

And just like that, the unexplainable 'hollow' feeling shifted, until the emptiness in his chest began to fill in with equal parts anger and resentment. Not at Gillian, of course… at Alec. To that end, he focused on a single sentence – when she explained that they were 'talking about it' – and the immature part of his brain wanted to ask her when, exactly, they were talking about it. On Saturday mornings, when Alec was _pretending_ to work, or in the evenings when he didn't even come home at all?

But in the end, the _rational_ part of his brain only managed to paraphrase what she'd told him earlier that morning. "What about that whole 'ships in the night' business, Gill? Much as I want you to be happy, I really do hope you won't jump into anything blindly. Especially parenthood."

True to form, Gillian waved him away with a light smile, as if to tell him not to worry… that she'd be fine… and that he was probably overreacting. "He promised to cut back, if…"

_If_.

She left the sentence was unfinished, but as far as Cal was concerned, the implication was haunting. And his gut reaction was anger; the kind that kicked his trademark overprotectiveness into high gear and made him want to wrap her in bubble wrap, just to try and create a barrier that Alec's insensitivity couldn't breach. "Those people he wants to impress are a family friendly group now, are they?" he said.

_Nothing_.

She said nothing at all – not a single syllable – and it wasn't until a few moments later, when she spun on her heel away from him, that Cal finally realized he'd pushed things too far. And that he needed to fix it, immediately, because seeing that particular expression on Gillian's face – the one that told him he was just as much of an insensitive plonker as Alec himself – wasn't a sight he wanted to see again.

Moving on instinct alone, he wrapped one hand around her wrist and gently pulled until she faced him again and the sight of her watery eyes made his stomach twist itself into a knot. "You asked me to trust you, yeah?" he said.

She gave him the barest of nods before finally answering with a quiet, "I did."

"And _I do_. _Always_. But now I need you to promise me something, yeah?"

Slowly but surely, the tears he'd seen in her eyes began to evaporate – until finally, the only emotion he read in them was _hope_. Not sadness, or shame, or resentment… just hope.

"Anything," she said quietly.

"Just promise to remember that you aren't alone in this. Even when he's working late, or leaving early, or gone all the bloody time, really... day or night. Remember that you always have me. Alright, love?"

It was her smile that did it – that lifted an invisible weight from his chest and made him understand that they were '_good'_ again. And that she still appreciated his over-protective instincts that so often walked the fine line between insanity and sweetness. "I promise."

"I mean it, Gill. I'm total crap with words most of the time, but I'm one hell of a listener. So anytime you want to talk… about _anything_ – good, bad, or indifferent – I'm here. Day or night."

Gillian smiled, reaching for his hand and squeezing it gently. "You said 'day or night' twice, you know. Careful with that, or the next time I'm awake before dawn, wondering where in the hell my husband is, I might just call to chat."

"S'fine with me. But just for the record? If he makes a habit of putting that look on your face – the one you're trying to hide from me right now, because you're hoping I'll just ignore the truth behind your 'middle of the night' comment, well then…"

She squeezed his hand again. "Point taken. And just for the record, I really _have_ made a lot of progress in the last few weeks. Being around children doesn't make me cry now. I don't get depressed. I have your Emily to thank for that, actually. She's a wonderful kid. Do you know what she did for me last week?"

Cal knew he should have been listening – really, he did. But while Gillian was caught up in re-telling the story of how Emily had baked cookies for her 'just because,' he was busy trying to school his features and _not_ tip her off to the fact that they were, for all intents and purposes, screwed.

"It was my recipe and everything," she continued. "And it was perfect. Absolutely perfect. I can't even believe she went to all that trouble just for me – just because she wanted to spend time together, and she wanted to do something sweet. Seriously, Cal, those were her exact words. '_I just wanted to us to spend time together, Gill, and I wanted to do something sweet for you, because you've always been so sweet to me_.' Promise you'll thank her for me, alright? I already did, of course – I thanked her at least ten times, I think – but hearing it from you will really cement it, you know? It'll make her understand how happy she made me that day. And that I always love spending time with her, because she's such a sweet person. Okay?"

Gillian was so caught up in her memory that she did not notice the look on Cal's face – the one he could bloody feel spreading across each and every one of his features, making him look pale and harsh. And she certainly didn't notice the way his eyes were trained off in the distance behind her – fixated on something that he hadn't yet mentioned aloud. And so when he finally snapped back to reality enough to speak to her again, the flippant quality in his voice took her completely by surprise.

"Won't be necessary, love," he quipped.

Just as he'd expected, Gillian frowned. "Why not?"

"Looks like you'll be able to thank her yourself in just a few minutes, because she's standing right over there."

Instantly wide-eyed as she turned in the direction of Cal's stare, Gillian's single word answer was laced with a myriad of emotions. Surprise and trepidation were chief among them. "_Where_?" she asked.

Cal sighed, then pointed. "Over there, smiling at us while her mother pretends we're invisible," he answered. "Funny, that. Didn't get a hint of shyness out of her last night, when she was calling me a cheating bastard and stuffing suitcases as fast as humanly possible."

Whereas he had gone pale at the mere sight of Zoe standing off in the distance, Gillian now looked positively nauseous. "Listen, Cal," she started, "maybe I should just go. I don't want her to get the wrong idea when she sees us here together."

But instead of stepping _away_ from her and increasing the distance between them, as Gillian obviously expected, Cal stepped _toward_ her instead. Squeezing her hand in his and shifting them until they stood side by side, with his arm around her shoulder, facing Zoe directly. "Zoe Landau lives at the corner of "_Wrong Idea_" and "_Uppity Bitch_," love. Seeing us here together won't make things any worse than they already are, and quite frankly, after the things that woman said to me last night, I'd rather enjoy the chance to twist the knife a little bit. Yeah?"

With acceptance on her face – because she knew there was no point in trying to change his mind – Gillian sighed. "I understand your point, but don't you think it just seems… _cruel_?"

Cal's eyebrows shot up to the top of his forehead as he leaned sideways to whisper in her ear. "Need I remind you of our little sleeping arrangement last night, love?"

Gillian winced, unable to stop the guilty smile that crossed her face at the memory of their evening on her couch. "Fair enough," she said.

And just like that, Cal tightened his grip on her shoulder. "Brace yourself, Foster. Something tells me things are about to get interesting."

* * *

_**A/N: Yes, the next chapter is bloody full of Zoe, Cal, Gillian, and Emily - together. It'll be posted in just a few days. Thanks for reading!**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N: Here it is... Cal / Zoe / Gillian confrontation. Enjoy!**_

* * *

It was like watching something straight out of a movie, but without the suspenseful, _'don't-go-up-the-stairs' _type of soundtrack playing in the background. The whole vibe made Gillian feel extremely conspicuous. She was tense and edgy and almost hype-aware of everything, to the point that she wanted to take Emily by the hand and just… go somewhere else. _Anywhere_ else. Because whatever was about to happen between Cal and Zoe, she was absolutely positive that two extra pairs of eyes didn't need to see it.

After all, no less than twenty four hours earlier she had been the one standing wide-eyed and slack-jawed in front of Zoe, being called everything from a jealous slut, to a naïve quack who only wanted to partner with Cal because he appealed to her '_inner bad girl_,' what with his accent and his tattoos and his penchant for throwing himself headlong into danger. It had been absolutely awful, and the last thing she wanted to do was endure a repeat performance – in public, no less.

And she _certainly_ didn't want to do it in front of Emily.

The whole situation had 'disaster' written all over it, and Gillian could feel herself growing tense by the second as Zoe approached. Her posture stiffened… one arm shot across her waist in a pathetic little self-hug… and she clenched one fist so tightly that her nails began to cut divots into her palms.

Trying his best to be reassuring, Cal's grip tightened against her skin and his mouth curved into a sympathetic smile. "Ever going to tell me what she said to you last night?" he whispered.

He was still standing right next to her, with one arm wrapped around her body and his hand splayed over the space between her waist and her hip. And _yes_, Gillian knew it was probably the worst possible image they could've sent, considering the whole "_We're just friends_" argument that Zoe clearly didn't believe, but… there it was. Raw and unfiltered, much like Cal himself.

Gillian sighed and squeezed her fist a bit tighter. "Not likely," she said. "Do _you_ plan on telling her we spent the night together last night?"

Immediately, she felt a low, rumbly laugh travel through Cal's body. "'Fraid I'll have to save the big guns for later, love. Would hate for Emily to see her mum's head explode – bloody traumatizing, that."

"Meaning that you'll play nice as long as she does, right? And then all bets are off, exploding heads be damned?"

There was a light warning in both her tone and in her expression, but he didn't pay much attention to it at all. And as his hand finally dropped away from her hip, he wore an impish grin that he didn't even _try_ to hide from Zoe. "Don't worry, yeah? We're standing in one of the most public places in the entire bloody city, and that means her hands are tied. Her drive to protect her public image automatically trumps her impulse to humiliate us. And besides, she knows Emily adores you. Baring her claws to you will only make her look like the bad guy, so she won't even try it in front of Emily."

Of course he was right – public image meant as much to Zoe as truth-seeking meant to Cal, and that alone should have reassured her. But it didn't. It didn't even come close.

With a pained expression, Gillian gestured to a group of benches that were positioned several feet away from where they stood. She wanted to bow out gracefully – stay nearby, just in case he needed moral support, but definitely keep herself out of the line of fire, just to avoid making the situation worse. After all, Emily didn't need was to watch both of her parents behave like immature bullies, and that's certainly what would happen if Zoe went on another tirade. Because expecting Cal to stand by silently and listen to another round of those… _insults_… she'd endured was just plain stupid.

"Listen, Cal, maybe I should just go…"

"No, you shouldn't," he insisted. "She lost her right to try and dictate the terms of our friendship when she wheeled her suitcases out the door last night, and threatened to take my daughter away. She doesn't get to _win_ everything, Gillian."

And yet again, she knew he was right. But she'd gotten so distracted with over-analyzing what Zoe was going to say to them, that before she'd had the chance to say another word about it, Emily walked right up to them and left her mother behind.

_As in_, literally left her behind – standing several feet in the background, fluttering like a wounded bird, and looking as though standing in the same zip code with Cal was causing her physical pain. Not to say that she was passive, though. She wasn't. Instead, she seemed… coiled. Like a snake. The attack was certainly there, waiting for them – it just hadn't been unleashed yet.

Feeling her resolve crumble by the second, Gillian chanced one last glance at Cal. Her gut instinct told her to walk away, but her conscious reminded her that _he_ hadn't rejected _her_ on that sofa, when she needed a shoulder to rest on, and few hours of peace. And instinct or not, leaving him now felt almost hypocritical.

"Alright. I'll stay."

* * *

Cal Lightman and Zoe Landau could argue about anything, and Cal himself would be the first one to admit that they'd spent more time in their marriage trying to be 'right,' than trying to make each other happy. And somewhere along the lines, as time lead them through twists and turns and their marriage morphed into looming divorce, most of the battles became smaller.

They argued over tiny, trivial things, like who would pick up the dry cleaning, or which cycle made the dishwasher run most effectively – stupid, mundane things that didn't matter at all. It seemed that no subject was too trivial, and sometimes they would even _invent_ things to argue about, just because they could. Because they were good at it, and because it had somehow become their twisted version of "normal."

According to Cal, Zoe was a champion at Inventive Arguing. Her latest '_project'_ had been a slumber party hosted by one of Emily's classmates – a girl named Hayley, who'd transferred into the school district a few weeks earlier. At least a dozen children had been expected to attend, and as Emily had enthusiastically told everyone she saw (_including Gillian and a handful of Lightman Group interns_), it was it was to have been 'The Party of the Year.' So, she'd packed her bags three days early, convinced Cal to buy her a brand new sleeping bag and pajamas, and called him at work four times in a row (in the middle of a staff meeting, no less), just to be sure he wouldn't get tangled up in a case and forget to drop her off.

_But_…

At the _very last moment_, Zoe had decided that she didn't know the family well enough. That she didn't trust the parents, and that it didn't matter that _all_ of Emily's friends would be there (_children of parents that she _did_ trust_), and after arguing semantics for hours (_in his office _and_ in the conference room in front of their staff_), Cal had finally stomped out the door to retrieve Emily, invented a story about borrowing something for a school assignment, and showed up at their doorstep right in the middle of dinner just to 'read' them. Just to satisfy Zoe and ensure that his Emily didn't get her heart broken because of her mother's over-controlling nature.

Just to _win_.

It was no secret that Emily was Cal's entire world, and that he would've done anything for her. Absolutely anything. From an impromptu dinnertime interrogation of her friend's parents, to passing on clients just to help her with her school work or drop her off at a party, he was an extremely hands-on father. Involved and invested in a way that Gillian had never seen from anyone else – certainly not from her own father – and she often thought that Zoe was simply jealous over his ability to be so natural with their daughter. And Gillian had no doubt that Zoe loved Emily just as deeply as Cal did, she was… _different_. She was hands-off and methodic, happy to live in a world filled with black and white boundaries, while Cal thrived in an environment of messiness, bright patterns, and coloring outside the lines.

The slumber party argument was just the latest example of those differences, and she knew it wouldn't be the last. And as she watched Cal step forward and scoop Emily into a massive hug while Zoe scowled and rolled her eyes, she was absolutely convinced that the next example would happen sooner, rather than later.

* * *

"Missed you last night, love," Cal said. He pressed a quick kiss to Emily's forehead and then gave Zoe a pointed glance which did nothing to ease the tension between them. "D'you have fun, then?"

She nodded, grinning up at her father while Zoe's silent scowl grew larger in the background. "Definitely!" she answered, with as much enthusiasm as it was possible for her small body to contain.

Immediately, Cal caught Gillian's eye; he was practically gloating. "No psycho killers or drug addicts, then? No smoking or drinking or sneaking boys in through the windows?"

_Slight correction_: He was _definitely_ gloating. He'd obviously won, and Zoe had obviously lost, and he wasn't being gracious about any of it.

"No, and I still can't even believe mom thought any of that stuff might happen," Emily laughed. "See mom? Dad was right. I was totally safe."

Cal bounced on the balls of his feet, grinning as widely as his face would permit. "Yes, well… we all know how your mother gets about trusting people."

_Gloat, gloat._

Because Zoe never wanted to believe that she was wrong about anything – much less that Cal was right – she thrust out her chin thrust defiantly and balled both hands into fists. "As if _you're_ one to talk about trust," she answered.

Then she cleared her throat and stepped closer – managing to keep as much distance between herself and Cal as possible without being blatantly rude about it. The fists she'd been clenching were quickly replaced by a hollow sneer that was tossed in Gillian's direction and missed, entirely, by everyone else.

"One of these days your father is going to run into a situation he can't 'read' his way out of, and _then_ what do you suppose will happen? Not everyone is readable, you know."

The comment was directed at Emily, of course, but the implication was meant for Cal. It was as if she was challenging him… using their daughter's innocence to pick a fight, just because it was convenient. Just because she _could_.

But instead of taking the bait, Emily and Cal both rolled their eyes and answered simultaneously. "Of course they are."

_Gloat, gloat._

While Cal grinned and did his best to be nonchalant about the whole thing (even though she _knew_ he was doing a mental victory dance), Gillian began to stare at the floor. The entire situation made her feel like the biggest third wheel in the world.

"_The point is_… it's our job to keep you safe," Zoe insisted. She was ignoring Cal's grin and Gillian's distant stare, and was already well on her way to laying down the groundwork for the next battle: Who did a better job of keeping Emily safe – herself or Cal?

"And if that means missing out on the next big sleepover because I don't feel comfortable with the parents," she continued, "well then…"

"… then dad can just use his face-reading tricks again," Emily interrupted. "Problem solved."

Despite feeling uncomfortable, Gillian couldn't hide her smile. The girl was precocious and spirited, just like her father.

Zoe stared daggers at Cal, silently willing him to jump in and say something to help her cause. And when he didn't (_of course he didn't_), she closed her eyes and rubbed her index finger along her temple, as if trying to erase a headache. She was frustrated, and angry, and still trying like hell not to become the bad guy in Emily's eyes.

"Emily, sweetheart, please be realistic. I know your father's science can be… _handy_… sometimes, but let's face it: he won't always be around to use it."

Suddenly, Gillian began to wish that the floor would just open up and swallow her. Because as much as she wanted to be there for Cal – to lend moral support and a friendly ear – it was getting harder and harder to stand there and just be silent about everything. Especially when she knew _exactly_ what Zoe was doing, _exactly_ what she was trying to say, and _exactly_ how much longer it would take until Emily started to put the pieces together herself.

Right on cue, Emily looked back and forth between her parents with a confused frown. "Like if he has a case, you mean?" she asked.

And then before anyone could clarify, Emily simply grinned and turned her attention to Gillian. "No problem, mom. If dad's not around, then Gill can do it. _Trust me_, she's just as good as he is. Sometimes it's like they share a brain or something."

True to form, Cal didn't miss a beat. "Scary thought, yeah love?" he quipped, poking Gillian in the ribs with his elbow, just for emphasis.

But while he joked and Emily smiled, Zoe had gone pale. She'd reverted to making fists again, and they clenched and un-clenched in time with her breathing. Every word and every point she _tried_ to make did nothing except draw her ever closer to 'Bad Guy' status, and she knew it.

Obviously, she hadn't thought about this part yet – about how they were actually going to tell Emily about the divorce – but one thing one was crystal clear: she did _not_ want Gillian Foster as their audience.

_Not at all._

"Now, now… we can't bother Doctor Foster with problems like that," Zoe insisted. "And besides, I wasn't talking about a case. I was talking about… about…"

Emily went back to frowning and glancing between her parents; the pieces were shifting together, but they hadn't clicked in place yet. "About _what_?" she asked.

Suddenly looking right at Cal, Zoe sighed. "I just meant that your father won't always be around to take care of those day-to-day type things. Like sleepovers, and boyfriends, and things of that nature."

Emily groaned. "Two things, mom. _One_ – no boyfriends. Not yet. That's just… crazy."

"Bloody right, it is," Cal offered.

_Gloat, gloat._

He was too busy grinning to notice the massive look of annoyance that came from Zoe, and he was too far away to hear the words of advice Gillian couldn't help but whisper. "_Really_ not helpful, Cal. Bigger picture, alright?" she said.

Clearly, the man wasn't doing himself any favors.

"And _two_," Emily continued. "You're gone more often than he is. You leaves for work before I'm even awake, and dad fixes breakfast and packs my lunch, and helps me with homework after school. That _is_ the day-to-day stuff, right? So… why _wouldn't_ he be there for it? He's always there. If anything, mom, _you're_ the one who might not be around."

Emily's words held no malice or nastiness at all – she simply wasn't that kind of kid. Still, anyone could see that Zoe had taken it personally. As if Emily was making a judgment call, and implying that she was a bad mother.

Cal saw it too. The expression she wore, the lone tear that welled up in the corner of her eye, and the way she looked both sad and resentful at all of them. He tried to ignore it – he really did – but in the end, he just couldn't. And so he looked back to Gillian for moral support and finally said, "Your mum's just trying to say that we can't keep you with us forever, yeah? And as much as I wish you were always with me, sleeping in your own room in our house, that's not always… practical. Is it, Zo?"

All of a sudden, Zoe had gone quiet as a mouse. Her expression had gone back to normal and she just stood there, glancing awkwardly at each one of them in turn. And even though it was obvious that she wanted to speak, she didn't. Not a single word.

Cal took a few tentative steps toward her and swept his eyes over Zoe's features as if she'd grown a second head. "Cat got your tongue then, love?" he said. "Because silence is not exactly your style, is it? And as much as it pains me to admit this, I have to say… it's bloody unnerving."

Zoe gave a semi-satisfied smile at the thought she'd managed to rattle him, but nothing more. She didn't even make a grunt of acknowledgement at anything Cal had said.

_Bloody unnerving, indeed._

Emily sighed. She looked inexplicably sad and began glancing back and forth between Gillian and Zoe several times, before finally focusing on Cal again. "Yeah, well… I think that's my fault," she said softly. "I, um… I reminded her about the lesson you've both always tried to teach me. '_If you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all_.' Remember that one, dad?"

Not quite sure how to answer her without sounding like a total smartass, Cal briefly locked eyes with both Gillian and Zoe in turn, and tried to be humble about the whole idea of his daughter one-upping his wife. "'Course I do. Some people have no trouble with that one, but others always seem to need a little recap, just to keep their true colors in check."

He hadn't done it on purpose – Gillian knew that. She knew he'd tried to be gracious and tactful about what Emily had said, but the trouble was that Cal did not do 'tactful' in quite the same way as most people did, and so in the end, he wound up sounding like an arrogant jerk. And so, as soon as he spoke the words 'true colors,' Gillian felt the tension between all three adults grow so thick that it felt almost suffocating. Her 'Fight or Fight' response kicked into overdrive a beat later, and without giving it a second thought, she chose 'Flight.'

Alright, fine… _technically_, she chose chocolate. It was her go-to "drug" of choice anytime she was stressed, or sad, or lonely, or… anything, really. The stuff was practically a cure-all, and she never grew tired of it. And because the same wave of tension that made her want to run out of the room now had Emily had doing a little '_stare at the floor and wait for it to open up'_ maneuver of her own, Gillian couldn't resist inviting her along.

Conspicuously, she cleared her throat and waited until all three pairs of eyes turned in her direction. "Well _I_, for one, am in the mood for something… sweet," she said, once she had their attention. "Something chocolate. What do you say, Em? Feel like grabbing a bite?"

_Three… two… one…_

The look on Cal's face was equal parts disgust and surprise – as if she'd sprouted a second head and was now planning to devour him with it. "S'riously, Foster?" he groaned. "That bloody cake will give me nightmares this evening, and you ate more of it than I did. Where do you plan to put round two, anyway? Do you have a secret hollow leg or something?"

Humor. Bless his cranky British heart, Cal was using humor to diffuse the situation, and it was _exactly_ what she needed to calm her nerves and raise her confidence back up to its normal level. Part of her actually wanted to hug him, and the other part knew it would only make everything worse. So she took his lead instead, and tried her hand at her own brand of humor.

"Oh please," she said, smiling at him as she moved to stand next to Emily. "Everyone knows that there's always room for chocolate. And just because you can't handle your sugar the same way I can handle mine, there's no need to get jealous."

Gillian had expected him to laugh – a response that would've been harmless and completely platonic. She certainly did _not_ expect him to take her innocent comment and dial it up ten notches, just because he happened to use sexual innuendo in the same way that she used humor. And so by the time he smirked at her – with the same look she'd seen him use on Zoe at least a hundred different times – it was already too late to change the subject, and too late to divert his attention before it went even further off track.

His smirk was downright dangerous. And curse her hormonal heart, it actually made her shiver. A full bodied, head-to-toe shiver that made her want to crawl under the nearest rock and hide, just because it was so inappropriate. They were friends. Nothing more, and nothing less. Period.

"When the tables turn to scotch, love, let me know," Cal teased. "The stakes are much more even on that game."

Yes, it was _definitely_ dangerous. It was risky and exciting, and a thousand other unnamed things, not the least of which was ridiculously stupid, because she was married, and so was he. He loved Zoe, and she loved Alec, and that was how it was supposed to be. That was normal. Anything else was… _not_.

Out of the blue, Zoe stomped one high-heeled shoe down on the concrete floor as hard as she could, just to get their attention. To snap them out of their self-absorbed fog and bring the focus back to reality. It worked. Gillian was left feeling like someone had doused her with a bucket of ice water, while Cal looked like a little boy who'd been caught elbow-deep in the cookie jar. What a pair they made: flirtatious banter, sexual innuendo, one case of rogue goose bumps, and two strained marriages. It was a recipe for disaster, if she'd ever seen one.

When she stomped again, three pairs of eyes slowly turned to look in her direction. "Is there something the two of you would like to _share_ with the rest of the class, or is this just your standard-issue, every day, office-appropriate type of flirting?"

Whatever the correct response to Zoe's speech was, Gillian was positive it did not include blushing, or stuttering, or gesturing of any kind. But because neither she nor Cal could manage to speak in words, nonverbal communication was really all they had. And by the time Cal had gotten control of his limbs again and stopped waving his hands back and forth in the space between their bodies, he finally noticed Emily's reaction. She was shaking her head and looking annoyed (and embarrassed) at all of them, so he took two steps away from Gillian, just to put extra space between them.

Zoe had made her point.

They'd gotten so far out of line so quickly that it made her wonder… was _that_ what Alec saw between them all the time? Was _that_ why he was so worried about losing her to Cal?

Suddenly hit with an urge to change the subject to avoid facing the uncomfortable truth, Gillian smiled at Emily and said, "So then… chocolate. Feel like grabbing a cookie or something while your parents talk for a few minutes, Em?"

As soon as the words 'talk for a few minutes' flew out of her mouth, Cal and Zoe both sighed simultaneously. And then in a coincidence that was both inexplicable and totally creepy, they said – unanimously – "That's not necessary, Gillian."

That's all it took for Emily to finally crack. She was tense and stressed, and much too sick of the day-to-day drama in their lives to pretend it was all 'normal' anymore. She was just… done. "Seriously, guys, what _aren't_ you telling me?" she started. "I'm eleven, not blind. And you're both acting totally nuts. I mean, I'm used to you being moody around each other lately, but this is just… weird."

And just like that, everything dropped. The pretenses, the joking, and the bullshit – everything just fizzled away, like smoke from a billowing cloud. Reality was a heavy burden to bear.

As far as Gillian was concerned, there was only way to describe Cal's expression in that moment: _hollow_. It was as if someone had scooped out all of his insides and left him empty. Words, emotions, and instincts all failed simultaneously, and he was left standing there speechless, with his mouth hanging open as he looked towards her for help. Trouble was, she had absolutely no idea what to do.

"Do you want me to…?" she tried.

Translation being, '_I know I should probably walk away because Zoe hates me, but you're my best friend in the entire world, and seeing you hurt this badly makes my stomach tie itself in knots, so if it's all the same with you… I'd like to stay_.'

Unable to answer her with words, Cal simply nodded. _Of course_ he wanted her to stay.

A beat later – when he finally realized that the world was not about to implode around him – Cal turned his attention away from Gillian and back toward Emily. "Such a perceptive girl," he told her, sounding somewhat sad. "Sometimes it's easy to forget that you're so young."

Whatever Emily had been expecting to hear, that obviously wasn't it; her reaction to the word 'young' spoke volumes, and she gave her father such a massive eye-roll that Gillian was surprised she could still see. "I'm eleven, dad. I'm practically a teenager."

_Like father, like daughter_, Gillian mused. They were both feisty and free-spirited, and neither one of them wanted to be put into a box and labeled – even when the label was a fittingly appropriate one, like 'young.'

Cal grinned. _"S'that code for 'spit it out already, dad. I'm tough. I can take it_," he joked.

Emily grinned right back at him. "Something like that, yeah."

"It's just that… it's just hard, yeah?" he continued. "It's hard to say _and_ to hear, and I just… I never thought…"

As words began to fail him, Emily paled. She glanced from Cal to Zoe to Gillian and then back again, before finally fixing her gaze on her mother, simply because Zoe was the one who looked the least rattled by anything that had been said.

_Showtime_.

"You said not everyone is readable, but I _can_ read this," she explained. "I can see that Dad is sad, and that Gillian is depressed, but you… you're… _relieved_. So whatever this is that you guys aren't telling me yet, I've already 'read' enough to know it was your idea, mom. Not his. And unless you want me to start making a hundred different guesses and driving you all completely insane, then you should just do the responsible thing and tell me now."

Gillian wanted to clap – she wanted to run up to Emily and scoop her into a hug, just because she was such an amazing kid. She was smart, and perceptive, and she'd obviously inherited her father's confidence and her mother's knack for being well-spoken (but without the snarky attitude to go along with it), and that was certainly a winning combination. She might've only been eleven, but she wasn't afraid of anything – least of all, her parents.

With the ball fully in her court, Zoe's cool exterior began to crack just a bit. Most people wouldn't have noticed it at all, but Gillian did. She saw the cracks and the fissures that meant a part of her – a part that buried so deeply that she might not have even realized it was still there at all – grieved the loss of her marriage, and the end of her romantic relationship with Cal. And for just a moment, Gillian could've sworn she was having second thoughts… that she wasn't actually going to go through with it. That she'd wind up inventing some crazy story about a business trip or a setback at work, or some imaginary fight that could've been manufactured just for show.

But she didn't.

In the end, she simply kneeled down next to the girl, looked her square in the eye, and broke the news as gently as possible.

"Emily, I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, but your father and I have decided to get a divorce."

Cal's expression clearly said that he did not approve of Zoe's version of the story, but before he could play the '_Open-Mouth, Insert-Foot'_ game, Gillian caught him by the hand and squeezed. "Let it go," she whispered. "You have to focus on the bigger picture, remember?"

Before he had the chance to say a single word, Emily let out a deep, shuddering breath. "_That's_ the news?" she said, drawing out the first word in an over-exaggerated way that made it sound as though it had at least four syllables. Her reaction was part surprise, part doubt, but mostly just relief.

That's right: _relief_. Gillian saw it, and Cal saw it… but Zoe?

She didn't see it at all.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Zoe said. She was still kneeling on the floor next to Emily, smoothing one hand over the back of the girl's hair in an odd motion that was mean to be comforting, but just looked awkward instead. "I know how difficult it must be to hear this, but I really do think it's for the best. For all of us."

Unmoved by both her words and her sensitivity, Cal scoffed. "Bloody hell, Zo, there's no need to apologize to her."

And just like that, the spell was broken. Gone was the soft, maternal, _sensitive_ Zoe Landau – replaced instead by the bitter exterior they'd been expecting. "Seriously, Cal?" she scolded. "You've spent years accusing me of being the insensitive one in this marriage and now… _this_?"

Out of nowhere, the sound of Emily's giggle pierced the intensity between Cal and Zoe like a giant spear. They both looked stunned to hear it.

"Now you're fighting about which one of you is more sensitive?" she observed. "Why am I _not_ surprised?" Her tone of voice implied that she thought the entire situation was ridiculous. As if her parents were the Energizer bunnies of arguing, or something. They just kept going, and going, and going.

Zoe frowned. The entire conversation had turned from serious, to angry, to… _this_… in a matter of seconds, and her brain was struggling to catch up with everyone else. "Wait a minute, wait a minute – you're… _laughing_?" she said to Emily. "_Why_ are you laughing?"

"Because she's bloody relieved, that's why," Cal said. As if it should've been obvious. "Poor kid probably thought we were going to drop something catastrophic on her – like a death or a terminal illness, or that we were moving to the African jungle so I could study eyebrows again. Something like that, yeah? But this… come on, Zo, look at her. She's not surprised at all. She's smiling and laughing and looking at me like I've gone absolutely bonkers, but she'd doing it all with love, see? _Love_. Not bitterness or disappointment or sadness."

Zoe scowled. "You mean, you read her? While _I_ stood her and told our daughter that we decided to get a divorce…"

"…Bloody amazing spin job you did with that one, by the way…" Cal interrupted.

"… you stand there using your science as a way to come out of this whole thing looking like Mr. Good Guy?" she accused. "How _dare_ you."

"No, Zoe. I used my science because it's who I am. I can't turn it off, and you know that – and if you haven't come to accept it by now, then there would've been no hope for us anyway. In fact, I think it would be better for all of us if I spent the rest of my life with someone who understands me for who _I am_, rather than someone who still wants to shape me into something I can _never_ be. And just for the record, maybe if you were a little bit more like…"

One very specific name was on the tip of Cal's tongue, and all four of them knew it. But thankfully, _thankfully_, he didn't say it aloud.

Zoe seethed. She'd gone back to making fists and looking as though the sight of his face caused her physical pain. "That's twice now, Cal. Twice in less than twenty four hours that you've compared me to _her_."

Cal flinched. "Listen, Zoe… I didn't mean to…"

"_Oh, yes you did," _she countered. "You meant every single word. And you know what, Cal? I think that's the part that hurts the most."

A beat later – as Gillian and Emily stared on in silence – he took the bait. "What part?"

"The fact that you're both to blind to see the truth," she answered. "You and Gillian are a couple of so-called lie detectors, and yet there you stand – acting smug and lying to yourselves every single day. _Trust me_, Cal. Sooner or later, the truth will all come out. And both of you better hope like hell that you're ready to handle it when it does."

* * *

_**To be continued...**_

_**(A/N: I've got the sneaking suspicion that many of you are getting bored with this, so I just wanted to let you know that the pace is picking up soon. Just had to get the groundwork part out of the way, and apparently I've started writing really, really long chapters so it's taken longer than I anticipated. Thanks for reading!)**_


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N: Needed to tie up a few loose ends with this chapter, especially with Emily. The pace picks up from chapter 12 forward. As always, thanks for your kind words and support - it's very much appreciated. ** _

* * *

"I'm sorry you had to see that, sweetheart."

Gillian wished she had something insightful to say – something that would make the entire situation easier on Emily, but she didn't. And she couldn't help but think that the words _sounded_ as hollow as they _felt_.

Emily, though, seemed to be taking it all in stride. She looked somewhat tired and just a tiny bit worried, but overall, she was doing well. Considering the circumstances.

"Are you alright?" Gillian asked. She wasn't sure if Emily's silence meant that she was too upset to talk about anything, or just unsure how to talk about her parent's divorce with someone neutral.

Emily shrugged, absently stirring the chocolate milkshake with her straw before answering. "I'm fine, Gill. Trust me – I've heard worse."

The last thing Gillian wanted to do was read Emily – it felt like an invasion of privacy, somehow, and thought of using Cal's science on his only child made her feel… _twitchy_. But it just as he'd told Zoe himself, there wasn't a way to turn it off. It was permanent. Besides, she loved Emily and she wanted to make sure the young girl didn't feel pressured to hide her emotions, just to protect someone's feelings.

"Whatever is on your mind, Em… you can tell me," she said quietly.

Emily stopped stirring and offered Gillian a sly grin. "That's shrink talk, isn't it?"

"It's… friend talk. Fair enough? I just want you to know that I'm here for you, whatever you need. That's all."

"And if I don't want to talk? Then what?"

"Then… we sit," Gillian answered. "No pressure. Alright?" She could practically see the wheels turning… knew that Emily _did_ have something on her mind. But it wasn't until the milkshake was finished and she'd grown tired of fiddling with the straw that Emily finally spoke again.

"They fight over something every day. Did you know that, Gill? It's always something, every single day. Sometimes it's about work, sometimes it's about money, and sometimes it's…"

"Sometimes it's what, Emily?" Gillian gently asked.

"Sometimes it's… about you."

Gillian simply nodded. She'd expected nothing less.

"Our house has thin walls," Emily explained. "Mom must've said that word at least twenty times in the last few months. _Divorce_. Dad just… never took it seriously."

"Seems like a lot of things are about to change, then," Gillian said. "How do you feel about that?"

Emily shrugged. "I'm not sure yet. I mean, even though they'll be living apart now, they'll still be fighting. They won't _really_ be happy. Not yet. And now… they'll be fighting over me. It'll feel like _I'm_ the one making them sad."

Gillian took both of Emily's hands in hers and squeezed. "No, sweetheart. You're the person they both love more than anything else in the entire world. And I know that parents can be selfish, because they both want you with them all the time, but the trick is… they have to find the arrangement that works best for everyone. Most especially you."

* * *

"Is this some kind of _joke_?" Zoe said, emphasizing the last word in a way that made her opinion obvious. "I mean, you can't _seriously_ be suggesting that Emily stay in that house permanently, and have two parents who come and go like a damn revolving door. As if you and I should just take turns being head of household, like… like _musical homeowners_ or something. The whole concept is just…"

The word 'bizarre' was on the tip of her tongue, but Cal ignored the obvious. As per usual. "S'not a horrible idea, actually," he said calmly. "A bit unconventional, granted. But it's me, and it's you, and when have we ever been conventional, right?"

As soon as he finished speaking, her mouth dropped open in disbelief. Surely, he wasn't serious, because it was – without a doubt – the stupidest idea she'd ever heard. "_Unconventional_, Cal?" she replied, emphasizing the word as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. "Talk about a gigantic understatement."

He simply grinned at her, falling back into his typical role of trying to ignore a problem in hopes that it would just fix itself. "I just meant that there are lots of details to sort, of course, but certainly nothing that we can't handle."

Long past the point of frustration, she could not help herself from looking at Cal as if he'd sprouted a third eyeball in the center of his forehead. Because _that_ scenario was about as likely as his crazy house-sharing plan, and if he thought for a single second that she'd ever consider it, well then… he was even crazier than she'd realized.

"You are completely _insane_ if you think I'm even going to stand here and justify this idea with any consideration at all," she scoffed.

And whatever she'd expected him to _do_ – whatever reaction she'd expected him to _have_ – he took her completely by surprise by quickly moving into her personal space, until there were just a few inches between them and her instincts left her with only two options: she could either put her hands up and physically push him away, or she could stop the conversation entirely, before it had the chance to get any further off track.

Quick, effective, and straight to the point… traditionally, those were the best ways to handle Cal. But she'd gotten no further than placing her right hand against his chest – palm down – when he stepped toward her instead, and said, "Hear me out, yeah?"

She blew all the breath out of her body in a single, frustrated exhale. "Give me one good reason why I should."

He shuffled forward again, inching even further into her space. "_Emily_ is the reason, love. In all of this, we have to find whatever works best for her."

Immediately feeling defensive, Zoe crossed both arms over her chest. "Cal…"

The word was both a warning and a plea, but he didn't pay attention to either. "We don't get to come first in this – she does. And with this plan, _she _would be stable, and _we _would be…"

"… Miserable?" she groaned.

Cal frowned. "No, no… not miserable," he said. "Not really. More like…"

Zoe grew even more impatient as he struggled over his word choice. The more he stuttered, the harder she pressed against his chest, until she actually moved him backwards a few inches. "Oh just forget the semantics, Cal – it doesn't even matter. And besides, that's _your_ house now, not ours. You bought it first, I just moved in after we decided to play 'family' together."

There was a flash of anger in Cal's expression that was impossible to miss, but somehow he fought it down and opted to use sarcasm instead of the bitter insults she'd expected. "You make it sound so _romantic_, love," he quipped. "Don't seem to remember hearing any complaints from you when we _made_ that child, yeah? _Or_ during the honeymoon, or most of Em's first six or seven years, for that matter."

Despite her obvious irritation, Zoe blushed. Memories of their happier times together flooded her senses like a kaleidoscope, showing her the vivid colors and patterns that years spent loving Cal Lightman had woven together. And even though she was angry and hurt, right on cue… it happened. Her pupils dilated and her breathing grew shallow and he read the signals instantly. _Instantly_.

_Damn him._

Cal shifted his gaze from her eyes, to her lips, to her throat, and back again – cataloguing the reaction he saw. And then as she stood there, wishing she could just disappear in order to escape his scrutiny, he said, "Tell me when it happened, love. Tell me when everything started to fall apart between us."

_Jesus, he was infuriating._ And she did _not_ want to have this conversation again. So she pushed against his chest until she pressed him even further away, and then said, "Don't play this game of Twenty Questions with me, Cal. Not here. Not when your little friend is sitting right over there with our daughter, enjoying a front row seat to the whole thing. It's just… wrong."

He shrugged, pretending to ignore the sting behind her comment. "Indulge me. Because obviously, you've given the matter a hell of a lot more thought than I have. So tell me, Zo… was it during the first year? Those months just after Em was born when we were running on no sleep and no sex, and enough caffeine to power a small army?"

After a few seconds of hesitation, she shook her head 'no' but left her stone-faced expression intact. Clearly, they were going to have the conversation whether she wanted to have it or not.

"Right, then," he continued. "If it wasn't the first year, maybe it was the second or third? Maybe even the fourth? During all those times we took Em to the beach, and the park, and the zoo – do you remember? All those weekends we spent together… were you happy then, or were you just pretending?"

The hard edge around her expression softened slightly, and she looked off to the side as if caught in a memory. It wasn't a verbal answer, but he heard it loud and clear. She hadn't been pretending at all – not then.

"What about all those hours you spent trying to make partner? When I played Mr. Mom for _months_, just so you could focus on _your_ career and _your_ name? All that appreciation you showed me… when you came into _our_ bed at night and told me that you loved me, and that someday all the hard work would be worth it. Was that just all a _bloody lie_?"

She found herself moving back toward him, even though instinct was screaming at her to turn away. "You know it wasn't. It was never a lie, then."

He nodded, and made a face that clearly showed the frustration he still refused to verbalize. "When I left the Pentagon?"

Zoe's face tightened, but she kept her gaze locked with his – even and steady – and said nothing. Not a single word. He was getting closer to the truth, but she had neither the patience nor the energy to lead him to it.

"When I met Foster?"

_Closer… closer… _

"When I asked her to be my partner, then?" he said thickly, fully expecting that to be the answer. The moment when everything started to go wrong between them.

But it wasn't_. Not quite._

He moved closer again – circling her, reading every single micro-expression she was unwittingly showing. "Took her two days to accept," he said, almost as an afterthought. "What about then, Zo? Was that it?"

Curse every single muscle in her body – all the wrong ones that flinched and gave him confirmation, and all the others that held her arms in control when what she _really_ wanted to do was slap the pompous expression right off his face. Instantly, he had his answer. "Never in a million years did I think she'd actually say yes," she said harshly.

And at that, Cal finally faltered. "I don't… I don't understand. You're more upset that she _accepted_ my offer, rather than at the fact that I _extended_ one in the first place?"

"Yes," she snapped.

"And people assume _I_ am the crazy one."

"Oh, please. This woman knew you for what…two weeks, maybe three? And as your _psychologist_, at that. She was hired to diagnose you, Cal – to fix you – and somehow, by some unimaginable consequence that I will _never_ be able to understand – the two of you became so _connected_ that you asked her to go into business with you, without _ever_ even checking with me first. _Your wife_. And just so we are crystal clear," she clarified, "I'm not trying to imply that you needed my permission. What I mean is this: I had _no fucking clue_ that you even wanted to start a business at all, let alone that you wanted to do it with a woman who was a virtual stranger to both myself and our daughter."

A look bordering on shock crossed Cal's face and he watched her with wide eyes. And he tried to interrupt her – tried to shift the conversation, so that he could explain himself and try to calm her down. "Zoe, I never meant…" he started.

But she had no intention of stopping – not when the words were finally clear in her heart _and_ in her mind.

"Want to hear something funny?" she said rhetorically. "Once you finally told me what you'd done – that you'd made the offer and were waiting for an answer from Gillian – I thought it was laughable. That you'd completely lost your mind, and that there was no way in hell that a stable, established woman, with a reputable career would _ever_ throw it all away on a man she'd known for less than a month."

When realization and implication washed over Cal a moment later, he sighed. "But… she did."

"She changed her _entire life _for you. _All of it_, just for you."

"Zoe, listen…" he tried.

He carefully reached for her hand, but she pulled it away at the last second, before he could make contact. "No Cal, you need to listen. Gillian Foster changed her entire life for you, and all you had to do was ask. What woman _wouldn't_ feel threatened by that?"

It was rhetorical, but because the silence felt so heavy between them, Cal felt compelled to speak. "Gillian is… well, she is…"

The look on his face was a mixture of confusion, guilt, and the faintest trace of happiness she'd ever seen from him. Just one blink, and she would've missed it completely. It was hidden in the fine lines around his eyes, each and every time he spoke her name – but gone a micro-second later, making her wonder if he was even aware it existed.

"Aside from the business, all we've ever had together is friendship," he managed.

There was a split second – when the primary look on her face was sadness, and the anger she'd become so accustomed to feeling had begun melt away – when she thought she _might_ have overreacted. Maybe.

_But_...

True to form, Cal took things one step too far. "I can see that you want to believe me. So what's it going to take for you to drop this whole divorce nonsense, and just… try to move forward together?"

And just like that… everything changed. All the anger and frustration she'd been feeling for months was back again, in full force. She was livid. "_First of all_… my feelings are not nonsense, and neither is my opinion. Just because it doesn't match yours, that doesn't make it invalid. Second of all…"

The dramatic pause was unintentional. It was a side effect of not being certain of what she was actually going to say, or whether she should even say anything at all. But the look on his face – the one that told her he would just keep the whole debate escalating if she didn't knock him off balance one way or another – finally pulled the words from her lips.

"Second of all… does Alec Foster realize that you're in love with his wife?"

Whatever reaction she'd expected – from shock to anger to complete denial – nothing could've prepared her for what Cal actually did. Which was laugh.

"I don't think that wanker realizes what day of the week it is, most of the time," he joked. "He hasn't got a bloody clue about the relationships his wife has with other men."

Of all the possible things she could've said in that moment, everything boiled down to one simple observation. "You're not even going to try to deny it, are you?" she said.

Instantly, Cal's good humor was gone.

"_Jesus Christ_, Zoe, it was a joke. A _bloody joke,_ alright? Let me be perfectly clear – I am not now, nor have I ever been, in love with Gillian, yeah? _You_ are my wife. _She_ is my partner and my friend. And there is a vast difference between the feelings I have for you, and the feelings I have for her. Understand?"

For a full minute, she didn't react at all. Didn't speak, didn't move, and barely even breathed. But just as he began to get his footing again – to think that he'd finally made her understand his point – she let loose with a sarcastic laugh. "But there is one very blatant similarity."

Bracing himself, Cal frowned. "What similarity?"

"You aren't in love with _me_ anymore, either."

As she turned to walk away, back towards the spot where Gillian and Emily sat, frustration overwhelmed Cal. He grabbed her hand – pulling on it with enough force to make her spin around again, so that they were face to face. "I _do_ love you, Zoe. You're Emily's mum, and you're my wife, and…"

Something caught his eye, mid-sentence. Just a small, peripheral movement that stole his attention and triggered his need to look over at her. At Gillian. And he then smiled.

He _smiled_.

It was completely cliché, but he was looking at Gillian Foster as if she lit him up inside – and the sad thing was, he didn't even realize it. Whatever his heart was feeling, his brain hadn't allowed him to recognize it yet.

_Pathetic_.

Zoe sighed, allowing acceptance to pull her from his grasp even as his stubborn fingers struggled to keep her anchored nearby. "Zoe, wait…"

She couldn't decide if it was his pride talking, or if his need to 'win' the argument had overtaken reason. But what she did know – _with certainty_ – was the difference between being 'in love' with your spouse, and having 'loving' feelings for the parent of your child.

"Wait. _Please_."

She simply shook her head, and held up her hands – palms out and facing him. "This isn't enough for me anymore, Cal. And I can't stand the thought of living the rest of my life as… as…"

Struggling to find the right word, she turned toward the spot where Gillian and Emily still sat. Jealousy, regret, disappointment… each of those feelings passed through her heart in turn, until finally – when she brought her attention back to Cal – she settled on anger. What an utter, wretched mess.

"As _what_?" he prompted.

"As a third wheel in my own marriage."

The flash of hurt on his face was impossible to miss. "Message received, love," he said. "Loud and clear."

She crossed both arms over her chest, just to prevent him from trying to touch her again. "I already made a few phone calls… I should be able to find something pretty quickly. As long as it has two bedrooms and is in a decent neighborhood, then that's all that really matters. I just want to make sure Emily is comfortable."

Cal scoffed immediately. "Our house is already in a lovely neighborhood, and I meant what I said before. Let Emily stay there. That's _our_ home, Zoe, with our memories and our history."

His insistence did nothing to calm her emotions; it merely pushed her to be more defensive. "Spare me. Yes, we _did_ have some good times there… and we made good memories… but my point is, they are _your_ memories now. I don't want them anymore."

If her resolve had been just a little bit weaker, the expression of utter sadness on Cal's face would've probably made her break. But it didn't. Instead, she took a deep breath and began to inch away from him. "I just need a few more hours to get my things together, and then I'll be gone. We shouldn't have any reason to speak again until the paperwork starts rolling. I'll have my attorney file it next week."

Cal swallowed and nodded, leaving his expression as blank as possible. This time, he did not attempt to pull her back. "And the custody arrangement?" he asked. "Do I get a say in any of this, or are you just going to try and strong-arm me by pulling all your legal strings?"

She took another small step. "Joint custody," she said quietly.

"As in fifty-fifty, right?" he asked. He made no move to follow her, but made it clear that he didn't want her to leave until she answered the question.

"Two weekends a month, and alternating holidays," she answered. "Anything else would just be too… confusing for her."

Cal made a noise that was half disgust, half raw regret. "Might as well be full, then," he said under his breath.

And even though he hadn't meant for Zoe to hear him, she did. She heard every single word. "Oh, that part will come from Emily," she said cryptically. _"Trust me_ – after all those weekends I sat in _your_ house alone with _our_ daughter, knowing that you were tucked away at the office with Gillian, I speak from experience. She'll get tired of coming in second place, and she'll leave you behind. Just like I am."

The finality in her voice made Cal nauseous, but he still didn't try to stop her. "I love Emily more than anything in this world," he managed. "And you _know_ that."

"She loves you too, Cal. But just wait – she'll give up on trying to come first in your life, because obviously… that role has belonged to Gillian for _years_."


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/N: Many thanks again for the feedback and support... it is very much appreciated.**_

* * *

He hadn't lied to her. Not intentionally.

Hours earlier, when he'd hugged her goodbye and ignored the pull in his gut that grew stronger and deeper as the miles carried him away from her, Cal had honestly thought that everything would be fine. That he didn't need her hospitality, and that he could handle the silence of his empty home.

Ever stubborn, Gillian had tried to change his mind; she wanted to be sure he knew he was welcome, and that he didn't need to be alone. And even now, hours later, her sweet words rang through his memory just as clearly as when she'd first spoken them.

"_It's not an imposition," _she insisted._ "Come home with me, Cal – just for a few days. You can get a little perspective, give Zoe a chance to finish clearing out her things, and _then_ you can go home."_

On paper, it sounded like the perfect solution. But in reality, it felt… dangerous. Emotionally dangerous. For both of them. And so, he'd declined.

"_Much as I appreciate the offer, love, something tells me that Alec wouldn't approve of you inviting strange men to move in with you, yeah?"_

True to form and almost as stubborn as he was, Gillian scoffed. _"Not '_men'_ plural," she clarified. "'_Man'_ singular. We both know you're the only strange one in my life, and besides – that guest room practically has your name written above the door. You've stayed there, what? Six times now, I think?"_

Cal smiled, wanting to accept the offer even though he knew he shouldn't. And so in the end, he opted to point out the obvious truth she hadn't spoken aloud. _"And how many of those times d'you tell Alec about, Gill? Does he know anything about the times I stayed with you when he was away? Because if you haven't ever told him about _that_, well then… I doubt he'd like an introductory course in Lightman Sleepover Etiquette now, twelve hours after he found us spooned together on your sofa."_

As soon as her smile faltered, Cal had known he'd made the right decision. _"Thought so," he said._

He'd turned away after a moment, increasing the speed of his steps as they approached her car, but Gillian caught him by the wrist before he reached the passenger door._ "That doesn't mean it's a bad idea," _she'd insisted_._

"_Yeah, love, I think it does."_

She tugged on his wrist again._ "What happened last night was completely innocent, and you know it."_

"_But Alec doesn't. And maybe… maybe I don't want to get in the way of anyone else's marriage anymore, alright? I fucked my own up, Gill. Don't let me come between yours."_

Anger. The predominant emotion on Gillian's face had been anger, and it that's when it occurred to him that he'd done a bloody awful job at conveying his feelings and that he was trying to push her away again. Making assumptions about what was best for her, out of sheer habit alone.

But just as he was ready to apologize, she raised one hand between them and stopped the words before he could begin to speak them._ "Cal, listen... I…"_

And curse his practical brain, whatever logic she was about to use to justify her desire to comfort him, he simply wasn't in the mood to listen. Not this time.

"_S'fine, love. I'm a big boy, yeah?" he said. "An empty house won't kill me, and besides… a little quiet might be nice for a change. Give me a chance to think."_

The look on her face made it obvious that she didn't believe a word he'd said, but she was too polite to argue. _"Are you sure?"_

"_Yeah, Gill. I'm sure. And besides, I think a little bit of space might be good. For us."_

For us.

He'd been intentionally ambiguous, hoping she wouldn't understand that he was talking about their friendship, _as well as_ his relationship with Zoe. Both were muddled, confusing messes that made his head spin and stretched his better judgment to the breaking point. And so, he decided that a little bit of quiet… a little bit of space… was exactly what he needed to get his head on straight again.

But clearly, he was wrong.

* * *

_Quiet_.

The house was nauseatingly quiet, and after spending only a few short moments inside –surrounded by empty shelves and darkened rooms_, _as the sound of Gillian's car faded off into the distance – Cal felt the urge to run again. To find something that would make it all go away. Because he hadn't expected it to feel like _this_ at all. Coming home to a house filled with memories of a family that no longer existed – his family – made him feel like a failure. It was leveling. As if someone had hit the reset button on his entire life, without giving him any votes on the matter.

It was like one big, fat karmic joke that left him with the strangest mix of energy running through his body. Part of him wanted to move – to react – to find _something_ he could control or manipulate, just to regain his sense of purpose. The other part wanted to fall onto the sofa, drink until he fell into a stupor, and not open his eyes again until gravity refused to let the lids stay shut any longer.

It was indecision, personified.

As he stood in the middle of his living room, with memories of his marriage so close at hand that he could almost touch them, Cal felt the raw reality of his situation begin to slowly overwhelm him. It happened inch by inch… thought by thought…step by step, until it wrapped itself around the base of his skull and its cold, unyielding fingers worked to overtake his sanity. He heard Zoe's voice in his head… saw her bitter expression as she spoke of his relationship with Gillian… and it struck him that all of their conversations in the last six months had been a battle. He'd needed to prove himself – defend himself – just to keep her in his life.

His own wife.

Meanwhile, his friend – _his friend_ – had bent over backwards just to keep him sane. To make him comfortable. To help him understand that she would never leave him, not even if he tried like hell to push her away.

Such an extreme contradiction. Cal versus Zoe… friendship versus love… suspicion versus trust.

It made his stomach clench and his head spin. Made him ball both hands into fists and squeeze them so bloody tightly that his forearms shook with tension and each knuckle turned white. He felt dizzy, yet balanced. Centered, yet sideswiped. And behind it all – behind every crazy, conflicted, messy emotion – he heard the echo of her persistence in his mind.

"_I'm a person, alright? A real person, with real feelings, and if you'd ever bothered to take your head out of your ass long enough to pay attention to the fact that _I_ am your wife and that… that… _she_ is someone else's wife, maybe then you'd realize just how far out of line things have gotten." _

"_She'll leave you, Cal. Just like your mother did… just like I'm doing… and just like Emily will."_

_"Does she hate this side of you as much as I do? The side that's always so hell-bent on pushing everyone away? It's just… it's just __exhausting__, you know?"_

And with that last one, with the sound of his heartbeat pounded in his ears, making his skull groan in protest as every muscle in his body poised itself for battle, Cal took aim at the empty wall space that used to house their wedding photo, and just… snapped. He simply reared back and punched the surface as hard as he possibly could.

Hard enough to crack the drywall.

Hard enough to split his skin.

Hard enough to make it all stop.

The voices, the memories… everything. It just _stopped_. And as he looked down at his damaged hand – at the scrapes and blood that dotted a path between his stinging fingers – he welcomed the wave of relaxation that finally began to appear.

* * *

_Quiet._

The room was nauseatingly quiet, and as the steam rising from the water started to dissipate – and the tears that had been pouring down her cheeks finally slowed to a crawl – Gillian felt the urge to sink beneath the surface, just to wash everything away. Loneliness, regret, resentment… they were all outward signs of the pain she still wanted to keep private. Pain that, months later, she'd never shared with anyone.

Except Cal.

Funny how it had been natural to let the truth pour out, when the comfort of his friendship was right there next to her. Funny how she hadn't been afraid of what _he_ would see, or how _he_ would judge her, yet there she sat – naked and trembling in a tub full of tepid water, trying to decide how she was going to hide it from her husband.

She hadn't expected it to feel like _this_ at all_. _Loneliness, regret, resentment… every single emotion she wasn't ready to show him yet began to ball themselves together in the pit of her stomach and gnaw at her sanity, making her feel weaker than she'd felt in months.

Weaker than she'd ever felt before.

With trembling fingers, she reached for the tap and adjusted the water until it was as hot as she could stand it. Until the steam rose fresh from the surface, and the skin of her arms was tinged pink. And as she sat there, wondering if the redness of her tear tracks would fade by the time Alec returned (or if he'd even notice they existed at all), Gillian heard the echo of his voice in her mind.

"_I know you want to help him. I know there's a part of you that wants to __save__ him, even. To __fix__ him. And the two of you have history together – I get that. But I'm not blind. That man looks at you like you're his lifeline. I know you can't see it, but it's there. It's always there."_

_"I might not be able to read people like Lightman does, and I definitely don't have a heart that wants to save the world, like you do, but I'm not ignorant, Gillian."_

_Promise me… that from here on out, the only man you'll try to rescue is me. Because believe me... I need you. I need you just as much as he does."_

And with that last one, as the last few drops of hot water finally began to run cold, Gillian looked down at her wrinkled fingers – at the shiny, gold band that she'd worn for so many years – and she just… shattered. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and slipped beneath the surface.

Until all she could feel was warmth.

Until his voice was erased by the pressure of the water against her eardrums.

Until it was mercifully _quiet_.

And when she surfaced again – gasping for air and grateful for the solitude of the darkened room – she welcomed the wave of relaxation that finally began to appear.

* * *

The ice was cold against his skin, but it made a pleasant contrast with the heat of Scotch sliding down his throat. Experience told him that he hadn't broken anything – that even though his fingers were swollen and stiff, the only real damage he'd caused had been to the wall itself and not to the knuckles that delivered the blow. Collateral damage, it was. And only temporary, at that.

The bottle was nearly empty by the time he'd had his fill. When his eyelids began to grow heavy and the pounding in his head and long been replaced by a mishmash of images he'd never remember come daylight, Cal wondered if he should call her.

He wondered if she was alone, just like he was. If she needed him. If she needed anything, really, and was just too stubborn to admit any of those things. But as soon as his undamaged fingers curled around his new phone – when he was mere seconds away from pressing her name on the screen – he realized that she was truly the only friend he had. And that using her as a lifeline was not only selfish… it was _wrong_.

It was… _addictive_.

And so, instead of making that call and hearing her voice in his ear – soothing and comforting, and a thousand other things that they should never allow it to become - he flipped through a dozen different channels and tried like hell to ignore the fact that they all reminded him of something he'd rather forget. A voice… an expression… a moment in time. Promises kept, and promises made. Friendship and hope, and everything in between.

After all of that – as his eyelids finally succumbed to the pull of sleep and the pressures of an overwhelming day, he mused that sleeping on a sofa was much more seductive with someone curled next to him, sharing the blanket and the kind of connection that was quickly becoming irreplaceable.

* * *

The air was cold against her skin, but it made a pleasant contrast with the warmth of the blankets that she pulled tight around her body. Experience told her that she'd covered it all. That the tears would not return, and that Alec would never know her true feelings, unless she decided to share them. And that while it had been… healing… to unleash her emotions in the solitude of darkness, sharing them in the light of day would be an entirely different experience. Collateral damage would surely follow.

The glass was nearly empty by the time she'd had her fill. And when the warmth of the wine made her eyelids grow heavy, and the ache in her heart had long been replaced by thoughts she'd never remember by daybreak, Gillian wondered if she should call him.

She wondered if he was alone, just like she was. If he needed her. If he needed _anything_, really, and was just too stubborn to admit the truth. But as soon as her fingers curled around the phone, and she was only seconds away from pressing his name on the screen, she realized that using him as a lifeline was not only selfish… it was wrong.

Maybe Alec was right. Maybe their connection really _was_ addictive.

And so, instead of making that call and hearing his voice in her ear – warm and distracting, and a thousand other things that she could never allow it to become - Gillian burrowed deeper into the blankets. Television remote in hand, she tried like hell to ignore the fact that _every single image_ on the screen reminded her of something she'd rather forget. A voice… an expression… a moment in time. Dreams lost, and happy endings shattered.

Friendship and hope, and everything in between.

Several moments later, as her eyelids threatened to succumb to the pull of sleep and her body easily remembered the warmth of Cal's embrace as he held her in the restaurant, Gillian finally heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. And just like that – so seamlessly she didn't even realize it was happening at all, much less be able to understand _why_ – a very insistent voice in the back of her mind decided that in a perfect world… the footsteps would've belonged to Cal.

* * *

_**To be continued...** _


	13. Chapter 13

**_A/N: Many, many thanks for the feedback! Much appreciated, as always. :)_**

* * *

_Several moments later, as her eyelids threatened to succumb to the pull of sleep and her body easily remembered the warmth of Cal's embrace as he held her in the restaurant, Gillian finally heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. And just like that – so seamlessly she didn't even realize it was happening at all, much less be able to understand _why_ – a very insistent voice in the back of her mind decided that in a perfect world… the footsteps would've belonged to Cal._

* * *

The mattress sank under Alec's weight as he perched on the edge. He was careful to keep as far away from her as it was possible to be, while still sharing the same space. And though she had willed herself not to cry – hadn't thought it was even possible, thanks to the sheer volume of tears she'd shed earlier – as soon as he opened his mouth to speak, Gillian felt her eyes well up again.

"I want to talk about this, Gill. But words seem too small to make you understand what I saw this morning. What I saw between the two of you, that you refuse to see for yourself."

Though he was too far away to touch her, and she made no move to reach toward him, Gillian had long ago been trained to search his face (and his body) for signs of drug use. It was second nature to her now – almost instinctual – to the point that she did not need to make contact with his skin to know if it felt warm, or if his pulse was racing. She could just tell.

And though she had expected him to show at least one symptom, he didn't. Instead of the anger or guilt or shame she'd _expected_ to find on his face, the predominant emotion she saw was frustration. _Interesting_. That tiny observation told her that he'd either gotten his fix hours ago – when the sight of her body wrapped around Cal's no doubt threw him into a tailspin – or he'd actually stuck to his promises this time and stayed away. Avoided the lure of the drug that had, for so many years now, become his favorite coping mechanism.

"It's just… it's just too hard, alright?" he continued. "Because I love you. And I need you. And it kills me to know that you need him, just as much."

His tone held nothing but honesty, but suspicion wouldn't allow her to trust him completely. "Alec, I…"

He didn't let her finish. Inching slightly closer, he smoothed one hand across the thick comforter and tried to keep his gaze steady with hers. "I'm serious, Gillian. I truly _do not_ understand your relationship. I don't. I mean, friendship is one thing, but what I saw this morning was so far _beyond_ friendship that it's almost laughable. And so I need you to explain it to me. Alright? I need to hear you tell me why, after everything we've been through together and all the promises we've made… why do you need him so badly?"

And that's when it hit her. As he studied her with wide eyes, using words that were deceptively kind and supportive, Gillian realized that the reason she couldn't find any guilt in his features – the reason he didn't feel shame – was because he wanted _her_ to feel it instead.

All of it.

"Broken promises are no way to build a marriage, Alec," she countered. "They don't sustain anything, except failure."

There it was. The pink elephant standing between them that he was trying like hell not to see. Because those promises he'd mentioned, the ones he'd made over and over and over again, each time she threatened to leave him… all of them had been broken.

Every single one.

As realization settled, Alec scoffed. He didn't want to admit she was right. And so he countered her explanation with a truth of his own. "And I suppose Cal Lightman is the world renowned expert on unbroken promises, is he?" he said. "Funny. Something tells me that his ex-wife would disagree with that one."

Gillian hadn't planned to tell him. And part of her knew it was a massively bad idea – a mistake that she'd regret as soon as the words left her mouth. But there was something about the look on his face as he said Cal's name… something hidden there, behind the nasty smirk that had become like second nature to him… that pulled the truth from her lips before conscious thought could stop it.

"I told him, Alec," she said simply.

He blinked at her – too confused to move, and too suspicious to overreact. "Told him what?"

Gillian sighed, letting her fingers stroke the soft fabric of the comforter as she tried to ignore the doubts in her own mind. "About the baby. I told him everything."

Immediately, his eyes narrowed and his left hand burrowed into his jacket pocket. Through the fabric, she could see the outline his fingers as they grasped smoothing, and turned it over in his palm. "_Everything_?" he repeated.

And with that single word, her tears resurfaced. She had little doubt as to what was in his pocket. "I didn't tell him about the drugs," she answered quietly. "Not yet."

He breathed slowly… steadily… struggling to remain calm even as mild panic began to set in around the edges of his expression. "Why not?"

Now that she'd brought it up, Gillian was torn as to how to answer him. Partly because she didn't understand it herself, and partly because she suspected that total honesty would spark something they weren't ready to handle. And so she settled for a compromise – veiled truth, mixed with heartfelt emotion. "Because if I tell him everything, it really will be a game changer. Trust me. If you think he's protective of me now… it's nothing, compared to how he'd react if he knew about your past."

Alec went still – so still, in fact, that she actually leaned closer just to check that he was breathing. "Is that a threat?" he asked.

Gillian frowned. "Of course not."

"Then what's your point, Gill? That I'll never be what you really want? Because from where I'm standing, your 'friend' doesn't look like much of a catch. Drunk, nearly divorced, and half crazy, I'd say. And given those circumstances, why would you even look at him twice? No doubt we have our problems, but _holy hell_… that guy is a few bricks short of a full load, even on a good day. He's trouble. Always has been, and always will be. And I have no clue how you've managed to ignore it for so long."

Her instinct to defend Cal was as natural as Alec's instinct to insist he was clean, and she couldn't help but flinch at the severity of his words. "_My point is_… you promised to quit. You promised time and time again – for months, Alec. _Months_. And every single time, it was all just a lie. But instead of asking for help, or giving me proof that you still want things to change… you decided to _blame me_ for _everything_. For the problems in our marriage, _and_ for the baby. You've been blaming me for all of it."

For just a moment – when his eyes were still locked with hers and his body was leaning ever closer – Gillian actually thought she'd gotten through to him. That she'd made a difference. That he'd finally heard her. But it was gone seconds later, as soon as he spoke again.

"Gillian, listen…"

But she didn't want to listen, because his voice had already told her everything she needed to hear. This time, there would be no apologies and no regret. Just empty excuses.

"Cal would _never_," she began, over-emphasizing the word and completely unaware that _she_ was doing the same thing to _Alec_ that _Cal_ had done to _Zoe_. Making comparisons between them. Drawing lines in the sand. Marriage versus friendship… the future versus the past.

She should have realized it, of course. But she didn't.

_Not even close._

And so she took a deep breath, totally oblivious to the flash of anger that went across Alec's face as he heard the implication she'd made, and then she spoke again. "I don't even think it's _possible_ for Cal to do that to me. To look me dead in the eye, make a promise, and then break it. He would _never_ do that, Alec. Not in a million years."

Alec fumed. "Why?" he asked sarcastically. "Because he's so much of a better man for you than I am? Well, I hate to tell you this, Gill, but you aren't married to _him_. You're married to _me_. _We_ took vows… _we_ stood in front of God and everyone and promised each other that we'd make it work. That we would fight for this, in sickness and health, in good times and bad, come hell or high water. Cal Lightman wasn't an influence then, and you have _no right _to make him one now. No right _at all_."

Under different circumstances, she probably would've agreed with him. She would've felt at least a little bit of remorse for what she'd said – what she'd implied – and she would've backed down. Dropped their argument before it could get any worse, buried the overwhelming pain she still felt over the loss of their child, and tried to move forward. But she didn't.

_This time_, she didn't care about wrong or right, what vows they'd taken, or how inappropriate her comparison between her husband and her friend had been. All she saw – all she felt – was truth. "No, Alec. Don't you get it?" she countered. "A marriage without trust and respect will never work. And you and I? We lost them ages ago. You might _say_ that you love me, but your actions always prove otherwise. Every single time. The words sound pretty, but they're nothing but hollow, empty shells."

"What are you _really_ trying to say, then? That Cal loves you more? That we should just forget the last eight years and through it all away because he would never treat you as badly as you think I do? _Jesus_, Gillian, when I walked in here tonight, I actually thought we had a chance to fix this. To get back on track, work on starting a family, and finally be happy again. And _now_ you're sitting there telling me…"

"Damn it, Alec!" she suddenly shouted. Yes, it was out of character and yes, took them both completely by surprise, but she still didn't care. It felt good to yell… to curse… to vent her frustrations in a way that did not involve chocolate or scalding hot bathwater.

"I'm saying that the trust and respect that man shows me every single day, means more to me than all the hollow words you could ever speak in a thousand years."

And there it was. The truth she'd felt for months but had never found the courage to speak. Releasing it felt almost…_ liberating._

Quickly sobering, Alec released a shaky sigh. "Where does that leave us, then?" he asked.

It was the million dollar question – one that she'd pondered for months, long before Cal's divorce and (if she were _truly_ being honest with herself) long before she'd even _conceived_ their child. They'd been standing at this crossroads for such a long time – both blind to the truth of it, and too stubborn to see that it was slowly suffocating their marriage.

His drug use… their infertility… and her friendship with Cal. Those were the three major players in a marriage that had, until a few years ago, been happy and stable. And though she didn't have the magic answer that would heal everything between them, deep down, Gillian knew one thing: she still wanted to _try_. She owed him at least that much.

With a deep breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, she hesitantly met Alec's eyes. She felt guarded, yet determined – and she slowly reached one hand across the bed, until she made contact with his, where it was balled into a fist in his lap.

"You tell me," she said quietly. "Because the way I see it, the decision is as much _yours_ as it is _mine_. You need to choose, alright? You need to decide what's more important to you: cocaine, or our marriage. Because I swear to you, Alec – from the bottom of my heart. I can't be your second choice anymore."


	14. Chapter 14

_**A/N: This chapter is set approximately two weeks after the previous one. I'm pretty sure it's obvious, but just for the record... the chapter segments that are written in italics are flashback scenes between Gillian and Alec. As always, thanks for reading!**_

* * *

One well-known truth around the Lightman Group was that Cal hated paperwork. With a passion. _As in_, the very sight of his desk – covered in stacks, files, and the like – was enough to send his pulse into overdrive and cause hives on both arms. Yes, the financial reports were enough to make his eyeballs bleed… and yes, the finer details of human resources made him want to crawl out of his skin with boredom… but under the right circumstances and with the right motivation, it wasn't really _so_ bad.

It was all a matter of… _perspective_.

And as he sat there – with four new case files stacked to his left and preliminary divorce documents to the right – he decided that he'd happily take over Gillian's role as _Office Manager-Finance Guru-Multi-Tasker Extraordinaire_, just for the hope of buying himself a few more hours away from the legal jargon that Zoe was trying to pass off as "fair."

In other words, he was stalling.

He was up to his ears in numbers, muttering in broken British curses and thinking that he really, _really_ hated Zoe's lawyer, by the time his peripheral vision kicked into gear and he saw Gillian standing silently near his doorway. She was bright eyed and smiling at him, looking none the worse for wear after all the drama they'd both endured during the past several weeks, and he couldn't help but feel jealous. Compartmentalization was still her crutch, and she certainly used it well.

Cal, on the other hand, looked like total shit. Bags under his eyes, hair sticking up at random angles, clothing even more wrinkled than usual, and a nagging headache that refused to break. It looked like he'd gone through the spin cycle twice, and lived to tell the tale. He felt right pathetic.

"Back to normal I see?" Gillian greeted him. Her slender heels clicked evenly against the floors as she moved toward his desk, until she finally stopped a few feet from where he sat. "Or at least, the 'Cal' version of normal, I mean."

Grateful for both the company and the distraction, he leaned his elbows on the desktop and peered up at her beneath tired eyes. "I'm living on an _absurd_ amount of caffeine and pain killers, haven't showered in two days, and to be perfectly honest, I'm not quite sure I've even blinked in the last fifteen minutes."

She sank into his guest chair with a muffled laugh. "Like I said, the '_Cal'_ version of normal is nice to see. Although…"

Cal quirked a brow, silently daring her to just go ahead and make the comment that was oh-so-obviously dancing on the tip of her tongue. "Although _what_?"

"A shower wouldn't hurt," she said meekly.

Paperwork instantly forgotten, he grinned. "Aye, aye, Foster. S'that an invitation?"

He'd expected her to reach across the desk and smack him, but she didn't. She laughed instead; it was airy and delightful, and did more to ease his headache than any combination of pills he'd yet to find.

"_Hardly," _she answered. "But you're more productive when you're clean, and _I'm_ more productive when you don't smell… like that."

"Like what?"

"Like a three day old hangover mixed with antiseptic, depression, and baked beans," she quipped.

Her radical honesty pulled a grin to his face almost immediately. With his hand held out between them – fingers splayed and wiggling playfully, just for emphasis – Cal turned his palm front to back for her examination. "Antiseptic part shouldn't be an issue any longer, see? I'm all healed."

"And the wall?"

"Minor details," he shrugged. As if throwing his fist through his living room wall was an everyday occurrence and he had no idea why she was still concerned about it.

"It didn't look very minor to me," Gillian muttered. "I _saw_ that hole, and quite frankly, I'm surprised all your fingers are still intact."

Hand still extended, Cal moved each finger again. "Blame the scotch, love. Liquid courage. I've learned my lesson, yeah? Next time I'll just…"

"_Next time_, why don't you save us both a lot of trouble and call me right from the beginning?" she tried. "I know it goes against your nature, but trust me on this one: there's no harm in needing someone."

It was the opening he'd been waiting for; the chance for his stubborn, over-protective instincts to intercept Gillian's good intentions and her shrink-flavored small talk, and put the shoe on the other foot. So to speak. And so he waited only a few seconds before saying – with as little sarcasm in his voice as possible – "Says the woman who nearly 'compartmentalized' herself all the way to second degree burns in her own bathtub a few weeks ago, yeah? So it seems to me that maybe… just maybe… _I_ should be the one giving _you_ the advice this time."

Right on cue, she faltered. She blinked and stuttered – watching him with wide eyes and uneven breath, and letting her body language tell him that she had _not_ expected those words to come out of his mouth _at all_.

"Alec told you… _that_?" she asked.

And _bloody hell_, the look of embarrassment on her face made him feel like a total _arse_. But… that whole '_there's no harm in needing someone'_ bit she'd mentioned?

It worked both ways.

Cal sighed and shrugged, unsure how to actually have the conversation now that the moment was upon him. "Not in so many words, love," he tried.

Translation being, _'Your wanker husband was too bloody pathetic and far too panicked to use actual sentences, so I took it upon myself to fill in the gaps.'_ And trust him, there were plenty of gaps. Plenty. Alec Foster had thrown himself into such a tailspin on that fateful night, that it was all Cal could do to keep up with the truth as he tried to read it from the man's face.

It had been… _pitiful_.

Gillian frowned at him – looking as if she was torn between wanting to bite her fingernails down to the quick, or slap him for turning the whole conversation on its ear, so that _her_ problems were the center of attention, rather than _his_. "What words did he use, exactly?"

Cal shook his head. "'Fraid it's not that easy, love. You tell me what _Zoe_ said to _you_ the night she left… and I'll tell you what _Alec_ said to _me_ the night you did. Call it an even trade, yeah?"

Too frustrated to argue and too stubborn to stop, Gillian thrust her chin forward and crossed her arms over her chest. "I did _not_ leave him," she insisted.

Instantly, he saw shame, regret, and guilt. The emotions played out across her face in rapid-fire succession, and Cal couldn't help but wonder if she was angry with herself for leaving Alec… _or_… for going back. And if the look in her eyes was any indication, in that particular moment, Gillian was wondering the exact same thing.

With a sympathetic sigh, Cal reached across the desk and held his hand palm up on the surface. He wanted to touch her; wanted her to trust him – to take the sting out of his words and wipe the resentment from hers. No shame. Only truth.

As soon as their skin connected, Gillian visibly relaxed. "I did _not_ leave him, Cal," she repeated, in a voice that was much more fragile than before. As if she'd asked a question, rather than made a statement. As if she were trying to convince herself of a truth she knew he'd never believe.

On instinct, Cal squeezed her hand in his. And then he looked her straight in the eye, and spoke the words that he'd kept inside for weeks. "Yes you did, Gill. You stormed out of the house, were gone for three hours, drove the man half insane – to the point that he actually paid me a visit in the middle of the bloody night, just to check that I hadn't hid you under my bed or something – and you didn't go home until sunrise. So yeah, darling, you left him. Trouble is… yours didn't '_take'_ quite as well as Zoe's did."

* * *

"_What are you really trying to say, then? That Cal loves you more? That we should just forget the last eight years and throw it all away because he would never treat you as badly as you _think_ I do? Jesus, Gillian, when I walked in here tonight, I actually thought we had a chance to fix this. To get back on track, work on starting a family, and finally be happy again. And now you're sitting there telling me…"_

"_Damn it, Alec!" she suddenly shouted. "I'm saying that the trust and respect that man shows me every single day, means more to me than all the hollow words you could ever speak in a thousand years."_

_Quickly sobering, Alec released a shaky sigh. "Where does that leave us, then?" he asked._

"_You tell me," she said quietly. "Because the way I see it, the decision is as much yours as it is mine. You need to choose, alright? You need to decide what's more important to you: cocaine, or our marriage. Because I swear to you, Alec – from the bottom of my heart. I won't be your second choice anymore."_

_It took several moments for him to speak again. And as she sat there, surrounded by silence and the dim light of the moon streaming in through their bedroom window, Gillian began to realize exactly what he was going to say. She saw the defeat in his face, read it in his mannerisms, felt it in the way he couldn't even bring himself to look her in the eye anymore. He was sitting mere inches from her, but in that moment, the distance between them felt like miles._

_He'd made his choice, and now she had to make hers._

"_I just need a little more time," he said weakly._

_It was everything she'd expected to hear, and nothing she knew how to handle, and so without a second thought, Gillian Foster just… left. _

* * *

"I'm sorry."

Cal squeezed her hand again, fighting the sudden urge to brush a kiss against the back of her knuckles, just to try and wipe the sadness from her face. "See, that right there… there's no place for it, love."

Gillian raised a brow in confusion. "No place for what?"

"Your constant apologies. They're driving me absolutely bonkers," he answered.

"Yeah, well… what can I say? Somehow, it's become a habit."

A glimmer of a smile cracked the surface of Gillian's frown, and even thought it was just a _hint_ of the one she'd so easily shown him moments ago, it was still enough to ease his anxiety. "It shouldn't be."

"For a man who didn't speak to you in '_words_,' Alec must've done one hell of a job getting the message across that night," Gillian noted. "That was weeks ago, Cal. _Weeks_. Waiting _this long_ to ask me about everything must've damn near killed you."

Gillian had no idea how true her words actually were. And she had absolutely no way of knowing that he'd gotten in his own car after Alec left, driven around the entire city before sunrise, just hoping to find her, and ended up parked across the street from her driveway, watching from a distance when she reluctantly returned home. She had _no idea_ that he'd seen her tears, and that it had taken a bloody miracle to keep him in the seat, rather than give in to the urge to chase after her – to stop her before she walked through her own front door, just so he could see for himself that she was alright.

Because obviously… she wasn't.

But rather than tell her any of _that_, he simply squeezed her hand again. "Very wise friend once told me that 'we all have our secrets.'"

And there it was. If she read between the lines (_as he knew she would_), she would've known that he was trying to give her an opening – a chance to tell him what was really going on in her life, and about all the secrets she was keeping, just because she was too embarrassed (and too stubborn) to share them. It was all he could do not to press her for details – not to read them right from her face, like he probably would've done with anyone else but would _never_ do with her. Because she wasn't anyone else. She was Gillian – the best friend he'd ever had in his life.

And all he could do… was wait.

Reluctantly, Gillian let go of his hand and began pacing the room. She took slow, random steps that told him she didn't want to leave; she just felt the need to move. To '_do'_ something. She stopped in front of his bookcase – temporarily distracted by photographs of happier times with Emily – and turned _away_ from him as she tried to explain.

"I didn't plan it, Cal," she began. "One second we were sitting there and I was asking him to make a choice, and the next second… he made one. Turns out that whole _'Truth or Happiness'_ idea of yours is pretty damn accurate."

Not sure what else to do, Cal began to walk toward her. She didn't turn to face him until he stood at her side, and the sound of his steady breathing began to calm her nerves. "Gillian," he started. "Whatever choice Alec made that night – whatever truth you learned – I think the real question is, were you happy with him up until then? Until _that moment_? Did everything start to 'break' because of what he said, or… _not_?"

Gillian's eyes roamed his face – from his brows to his cheekbones to his lips, and back again. "I used to be happy with him," she said softly. "But lately, it's like I don't even recognize myself anymore."

Cal stroked her arm and leaned forward a bit, just to keep her gaze locked with his. "Maybe that's the point, then," he answered.

"What is?"

"'_Truth or happiness, never both.'_ Maybe you have to face the truth to find the happiness again, someday."

Leaning into his touch, Gillian sighed. "Says the man who struggles with the exact same demons," she noted. "So please. Tell me. How the hell do I actually _do_ that?"

"I think you need to realize that things will probably get worse before they get better. But in the end, it's your call, Gill. You've found your truth, and now you need to decide if you want to try and find happiness _with_ Alec or… without."

* * *

_It was near sunrise by the time she returned – emotionally drained, exhausted, and completely resentful of the tears that were still falling. She did not want to cry. She did not want _him_ to _see_ her cry. Not this time._

_Decision made, she climbed the stairs and went straight to the hall closet where the luggage was kept. A single suitcase would allow her enough room for essentials, and she'd get the rest later. Much later. At a time when she wasn't crying, and she wasn't exhausted, and the mere thought of seeing him again didn't twist her stomach inside out. _

_Drawers and closets were methodically searched, with item after item quickly folded and stacked together in messy piles. It wasn't until the zipper strained against the fabric that she was forced to stop packing and actually _listen_ to the sounds of her darkened, cavernous home._

_And that's when she heard it._

_Soft light was visible under the bathroom door, and though she had no doubt as to who was behind it, she couldn't help but feel confused. Seconds later, she crossed the threshold and stood behind him – squinting in the brightness and trying to contain her shock at seeing him slumped on the soft blue rug, flushing every ounce of his stash down the toilet._

_He was a broken man on a pristine floor, surrounded by loneliness, regret, and pain._

_There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him in that moment – at least half of which probably bordered on cruel – but when she sank onto the rug beside him, only six words came to mind._

"_I thought you needed more time."_

_Alec's shoulders were slouched and he took deep, shuddering breaths that made Gillian's body tremble in time with his. And when he finally turned to face her – with guilt, shame, and immeasurable _relief_ written all over his features – she knew he'd changed his mind._

"_All I need is you, Gillian. I just never realized how true it was until you were gone."_

* * *

"_I think you need to understand things will probably get worse before they get better. It's your call, Gill. You've found your truth, and now you need to decide that if you want to try and find happiness _with_ Alec or… without."_

Gillian didn't realize that she was moving toward Cal, until her right hand tentatively brushed against his left forearm. "It sounds so easy when you say it," she said softly.

For reasons she did not understand, she couldn't quite lift her eyes to his, so she studied his jaw line instead – perfectly content to watch the muscles there clench and unclench as he stood still in front of her.

"It's the accent," he noted. "Been told that it makes everything sound very… comforting."

She nodded, unable to explain _why_ she was smiling at him, or _why_ she suddenly felt a hundred pounds lighter. "Yeah, well… something tells me it's more than just the accent." And then a beat later, as every instinct in her body collectively insisted that it was a bad idea, she stepped forward and wrapped both arms around him in an awkward hug.

It lasted only a moment, but when she pulled back and finally, _finally_ met his eyes, she felt… peaceful.

Interesting. Ten seconds in Cal's arms left her feeling better than anything she'd tried in weeks, and when _that_ particular realization hit her, Gillian paled.

_Uh-oh._

"I'm sorry," she muttered, hoping like hell he would not read her face, and that she could somehow manage to forget the solid feel of his shoulders under her palms. "I'm just… I'm _sorry_, Cal. Truly."

In a move that took her completely by surprise, Cal suddenly shuffled closer and cupped her jaw in both of his hands. His touch was feather light, and for a moment – a single, fleeting, _idiotic_ moment that made her knees start to shake and her heart rate speed up dramatically – she thought he was actually going to kiss her.

_Uh-oh._

But at the last possible second – while indecision and morality danced a tango in her mind's eye – he pulled back and dropped his hands to his sides again.

"Please don't do that, Gillian," he breathed.

Instinctively, she fought to hide the emotions that she _knew_ he'd already seen. "Don't do _what_?"

Cal sighed. "Don't apologize – _especially_ not for hugging me, yeah? Let's just… consider it our own personal 'open arm' policy," he offered. "Mine are always here for you, love. Whenever you need them."

_Jesus_, she needed to stop. To breathe. To realize that Cal was trying to help her, not _flirt_ with her. And so she took a few deep breaths, balled one hand into a fist and tried to concentrate on the feel of her nails as they began to slice into her palms, rather than the fluttering she felt in her stomach when he smiled at her _in that way_.

After all, this was Cal. And he was her friend. Pressing for anything more would be a _massively_ bad idea.

Especially now.

As soon as those two words popped into her brain, Gillian wanted to kick herself. Because '_now'_ had no bearing on anything. She was married, and so was he. And even if they fast-forwarded _months_ into the future – after Zoe was long gone, and Alec had either shaken his addiction or opted to let it destroy him – timing didn't change much of anything. Not really. They were friends and partners, and nothing more.

_Truth or happiness, never both. _

By the time she finally pulled back and saw suspicion begin to cloud Cal's features, Gillian knew she needed to change the subject. To lighten the mood. To make things normal again. Or at least, as normal as they could be, considering that all she really wanted to do was lean in and… kiss him.

Under her watchful eye, Cal's expression shifted from confusion, to shock, and then finally… doubt. "Gillian, are you…?"

But before he could finish the statement, she turned away – she literally turned around and walked back toward his desk, hoping like hell that if he had seen the unspoken thoughts behind her eyes, that he would at least be kind enough not to mention them aloud. "Tell you what," she said lamely. "I'll promise to stop apologizing, if you promise not to punch any more walls."

And just like that… everything shifted. _He_ relaxed, and then _she_ relaxed, and eventually – as the moments ticked by and she was careful to maintain the distance between them – things really did begin to feel normal again.

Cal smirked. "Have you seen my desk, love? Because that might be a bloody impossible promise to keep after I'm done sorting all those files. I swear, I have no idea how you manage to do it week after week, and still keep your sanity intact."

"One word, Cal: _chocolate_. Lots and lots of chocolate," she joked. And then when she finally noticed what he'd been pointing at – all the stacks and files that were spread across his desktop, her eyes grew wide.

"What on Earth _is_ all of this stuff anyway?" she asked. "New cases… payroll… quarterly reports?"

He nodded and sighed, looking five times more frazzled than she'd seen him in days. "Among other things."

"Such as?"

"_Such as_… a certain set of documents from a slimy little bastard named William Jacobs," he said.

In the back of Gillian's mind, a tiny little bell of recognition began to ring. She'd heard that name before – but for the life of her, she couldn't put a face to it. Couldn't remember who he was, or how she'd met him. The details were blank, but the familiarity was definitely there. "William Jacobs," she repeated. As if pronunciation would jog her memory.

_It didn't._

Cal sighed again. He rifled through the top few files until he found the smallest one – a tidy folder with a few dozen documents – and held it out between them. "Zoe's attorney," he said. "I'm beginning to think that what he'd really like me to give her is my head on a silver platter, complete with decade's worth of alimony and a giant sign to tell the world what a bastard I am. Stupid little weasel. And people sometimes wonder how _I_ manage to sleep at night? Let me tell you, love… this guy is as nasty as they come. He's like a rabid wolverine in a power tie."

Gillian winced. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse."

"Well, I have a chocolate pudding cup in my desk, if you're interested," she offered. Half joking and half serious, but absolutely certain that the words would make him smile.

_They did._

"I'll pass," he said, trying to hide the grin she'd already seen. "But thanks for the offer. S'the best one I've had in weeks, yeah?"

Deciding it was best to leave things on a high note – and that the walls were probably safe – she tossed him one last smile before walking back to her office. He called out to her just as she rounded the corner, but she didn't catch the words because she was too busy trying to remember where in the world she'd heard that name before.

_William Jacobs._

With a little luck, she'd figure it out sooner or later.


	15. Chapter 15

_**A/N: I wanted to post one more chapter before the weekend. There's a story arc coming for Gillian - I'm having a ball writing it, and I'm excited to get to the good stuff! It's coming soon, I promise. Thanks for reading, guys!**_

* * *

_He called to her one last time, just as she rounded the corner, but she didn't catch the words. Partly because her overactive imagination had kicked back into gear again as soon as he said 'best offer,' and partly because she was busy trying to remember where in the world she'd heard that name before._

William Jacobs.

_With a little luck, she'd figure it out sooner or later._

* * *

Traditions had evolved quite a bit since the early days of their partnership. Back when they worked out of Cal's kitchen and Gillian's car, celebrating the end of a case meant sharing cookies with Emily as she finished her homework, and a maybe cold beer or a glass of wine over joint plates of homemade pasta.

But now that the company finances were _mostly_ in the black… now that they had a support staff and fully functioning office building, with a state-of-the-art lab and a genius intern to run it… things had evolved. Instead of cookies and beer, they capped their cases with conference room pep talks and happy hour at the local pub. They were a tight knit team that shared a common goal, and they were unashamed to celebrate success whenever they achieved it.

Such was the plan that evening, after they'd put the finishing touches on both an embezzlement scandal, and a case involving jury tampering. It was a two-for-one special, of sorts – and after passing around a huge platter of cakes, pastries, and assorted sugary treats that made Cal's nose turn up in amused disgust, it had been _Gillian_ who suggested that the whole group bail on the standard issue, 'pat-on-the-back' meeting and take a trip down memory lane instead. She and Cal… interns and accountants… the entire staff – _all of them_ – would enjoy dinner on the company expense account. Wine, pasta, and employee bonding at its finest.

_Yes_, it was a distraction. A chance for her to forget about her personal life and relish in the successes of the firm she'd helped to build. And _yes_, Cal saw it for what it was. He knew exactly what she was trying to avoid by creating an impromptu staff party, but he was too kind to complain. Not even _he_, the resident master at weaseling out of social commitments, could bear to rain on her parade.

After all, it wasn't as if he had anyone waiting for him at home. With Emily still under Zoe's thumb at a rental house across town, and at least a monthleft before the divorce paperwork would be sorted, truth be told… he needed the distraction just as much as Gillian did.

_If not more._

In fact, he'd been _so_ agreeable to her suggestion that he'd actually volunteered to stay behind in the conference room with her, just to tidy up while the rest of the staff went ahead to the restaurant. They stashed the leftover pastries in the kitchen, organized the files that had been passed around to the team, and inevitably wound up talking and laughing for _much_ longer than anyone would've anticipated. Long past the "ten minutes" they'd promised everyone else, and certainly long past the point of casual explanation.

That was one of the perks of the work they did together; it didn't feel like "work" at all. The long hours, headaches, preparation, deadlines… all of it was so very worthwhile. It made them both feel _whole_. Productive. Like all those conversations they'd had in his kitchen and in her car about how they'd make a difference in the world, one case at a time, were finally coming true.

No one on their payroll paid it much attention to their dynamic at all; they were just 'Foster and Lightman,' best friends and business partners, and that was that. To some degree, it was expected. They spoke their own language, in a sense, and at times, it was as if they existed in their own little bubble. For the most part, everyone in the office just accepted it.

And so when they finally stopped laughing long enough to register the sound of fast, heavy footsteps headed in their direction – when they _finally_ realized how late it had gotten, and that understood that the rest of their group was probably beginning to get the wrong idea, Cal and Gillian honestly expected to see one of their employees (_Loker, most likely_) round the corner and get a solid laugh at their expense. Which would have been uncomfortable, yes… but nothing that would've been too damaging.

After all, they were just talking. It was all perfectly innocent.

_So what_ if Cal's chair was pulled so close to hers that their knees were brushing together with every gesture they made.

_So what_ if Gillian kept leaning forward against his chest just so she could hear him better.

_So what_ if she occasionally brushed her hand along his shoulder, and he covered her fingertips with his own.

They were friends, and colleagues, and it was all perfectly, completely _innocent_. There were no red flags and no mental 'warning bells.' Everything felt… _natural_. Which would have been perfectly fine, except for one startling fact: the footsteps they'd heard in the hallway – the ones they'd assumed belonged to Loker?

They didn't.

As luck would have it, they belonged to one very manic looking Alec Foster instead.

* * *

_Manic. Over-excited. Hyper_. Gillian wasn't sure quite _what_ to label Alec's expression; all she knew was that it was long past the time she and Cal were _supposed_ to have left, and that her husband never, ever surprised her at the office. Hindsight kicked in almost immediately, making her realize just how close together she and Cal were sitting (_alone, in dim lighting, with his hand covering hers and her fingertips resting on her lapel_). And she knew that no matter how innocent their behavior _was_, that certainly wasn't the way it _looked_.

But before she could think of a justifiable explanation as to why they were having an after-hours conversation in a dark, empty conference room, Alec barrelled through the doorway with an excited smile and wide, shifty eyes and proceeded to ask her the obvious question. "What are you doing here so late, anyway?"

She stood quickly, making a point to distance herself from Cal, just in case Alec had jumped to the wrong conclusion. And then, like guilt-ridden clockwork, they both answered simultaneously. "Staff meeting."

Under any other circumstances, those two words would've been the catalyst that sent the situation straight to hell. Alec would've said something snide… Cal would've been defensive… and she would've been left in the middle, trying to walk the tightrope between both men without making anything worse.

But instead, Alec was still smiling. There wasn't a trace of anger or irritation on his face _at all_, and Gillian was baffled. Passive-aggressive confrontation was generally his weapon of choice, but this? It was definitely a new experience for her.

Four long strides brought him to her side, and Alec leaned in to kiss her with such enthusiasm that he knocked her off balance. She literally stumbled sideways, until Cal's hand caught her by the elbow and total confusion pulled the words from his mouth. "Easy tiger, there's no need to maul her."

Yet again, Gillian expected fireworks, and yet again, they didn't happen. And even though the contempt in Cal's voice was wickedly obvious, Alec paid it no attention _at all_.

Instead, he wrapped one hand around her waist and pulled her against his chest, in an awkward one-armed hug that feltas bizarre as she suspected it looked. "Good to see you again, Cal," he said quickly. "How's work? How's life? How's Emily?"

He was speaking way too damned fast – making crazy gestures with his left hand that fit neither the conversation nor the mood, and Gillian felt as though someone had doused cold water on her. This behavior? The frantic, manic energy that was pouring off his whole body? She'd seen it from him twice before.

The first time had happened during his final semester before graduation, when the pressures of exams had triggered his first binge and nearly killed him in the process. And second was months later, when her own doubts about their engagement had led to their first major argument and sent Alec running straight into a back alley with his dealer.

She had no proof, of course. And he'd looked her right in the eyes days earlier and _promised_ to change. She'd watched him flush every ounce of powder down their toilet and insist that he was a changed man because of her. That he would stay clean and sober _for her_, and for their marriage.

Logic told her that she really should trust him; give him the benefit of the doubt since he hadn't shown any signs of a relapse until… this. (Whatever the hell '_this'_ was.) But history told her that in the end, Alec's habit of breaking promises would most likely make them both look like fools.

Right on cue, Cal read her face. He read the indecision that kept Gillian's body anchored against her husband, even as suspicion made her want to pull away. And with a single raised brow and a subtle shift in his posture, he asked a single, silent question: '_Are you alright, love?'_

At the barest of nods, she saw Cal relax. And then without much thought at all, she simply inched out of Alec's grasp and looked up at him with an empty expression. "This is… quite a surprise," she managed. "I thought you were working late again this evening?"

Alec shrugged. He was still wearing the same conspicuous smile that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, and she knew that something was definitely, _definitely_… off.

"Can't a guy cut out a little early to have dinner with his beautiful wife?" he asked cheerfully.

_Too_ _cheerfully_.

Instantly, Gillian's inner monologue turned passive aggressive. '_He can if he isn't _you,' the voice said internally. _Externally_, though, she just smiled right back at him. And she ignored the churning in her stomach and the gooseflesh on her arms, because, well… it was the easiest thing to do.

Cal, on the other hand, was less polite. "First time for everything, I suppose," he mumbled under his breath. The quip was loud enough for Gillian to hear, but Alec was oblivious. He was too wrapped up in his own head to pay attention to anyone else.

Gillian sighed and schooled her features. "Actually, the rest of the staff is…"

_Expecting us_. Those were the two words she'd intended to say, but Alec cut her off with a nod of his head and an even larger smile. He was still manic. Still holding one steel-fingered hand around the edge of her waist, despite her half-hearted attempts to remove it.

"I feel like Mexican food," he interrupted. "What do you say, Gilly? We'll have a few Margaritas, share some queso, and just… talk. Like old times."

_Mexican. Gilly. Old times_. Until that particular moment, Gillian had _no idea_ that so many things in one single sentence could annoy her so badly. And although she wanted to appreciate the attention Alec was showing her, she couldn't. She was irritated and suspicious… overly cautious and under-impressed… and the only thing she wanted to do was peel his hand away from her body, finger by finger.

It was a delicate situation, to put it mildly. On the surface, everything looked fine. He was polite and attentive, and _hell_… he _was_ her husband. He _was_ allowed to touch her without it automatically declaring war between them.

_Wasn't he?_

And his hand on her waist certainly shouldn't make her feel so… cagey.

_Should it?_

Before she could manage a reply, Cal jumped into the conversation with both feet. His cynicism was out in full force and _clearly_, it was ready to mingle. "Something tells me it would be a bloody awful idea to mix alcohol with whatever the hell you're on right now, mate," he said.

Cal's words were loud and deliberately aimed below the belt, but the insinuation didn't seem to bother Alec at all. His face was awash in energy – dynamic, kinetic, _hyper-active_ energy. And despite Cal's caustic quips and Gillian's attempts to shake his hand from her body, he just kept right on smiling. He looked like an over caffeinated ping pong ball with wingtips and a silk tie. It was absolutely bizarre, and neither Gillian nor Cal could help themselves from staring at him as if he'd sprouted a third eye.

"Relax, Lightman," Alec suddenly laughed. Haven't you ever heard of the phrase, '_High On Life_?'"

Cal's gaze flickered from Alec to Gillian and back again, before he finally answered. "High as a kite is more like it, I'd say."

And that's when Gillian finally, _finally_ realized that if she needed to do something to stop their banter before it spiraled any further into insanity. With a sarcastic Brit on one side, and a recovering addict on the other, she was quite literally stuck in the middle, and she was trying like hell to balance both relationships without causing any collateral damage.

It was a tricky tightrope to walk, and for some reason – some _insanely stupid_ reason – she could only think of one thing to say. "I could go for some queso."

_Jesus, she felt like an idiot._ And the fact that she'd practically shouted those six words at them made her feel like the world's biggest moron. But… it worked. It instantly broke their stare-down, and then it was her turn to be on the receiving end of Cal's '_bloody-hell, you've-sprouted-a-third-eye'_ stare.

She wasn't sure if Alec didn't notice the way the tension suddenly shifted in the room, or if he had just chosen to ignore it. But one thing was clear: Cal _definitely_ noticed. And he wasn't in the mood to ignore _anything_.

Reflexively, Gillian swallowed. In that moment, she became hyper-aware of the fact that all of her attention was turned to Cal, not Alec.

Funny how she'd begun to move _toward_ her friend, and _away_ from her husband…

Funny that she was no longer concerned about Alec's hand on her waist, and what she _really_ wanted to do was put her hand on Cal's chest...

_Where the hell had_ that _impulse come from, anyway?_

With his eyes drawn to her throat, Gillian knew Cal had seen right through her. "Far cry from the Italian feast you were planning earlier," he said. "But then again, maybe it's for the best. Maybe it's just like you said: '_We all make our choices_, yeah?'

Gillian blinked at him, completely unaware that her body was still inching closer to his. "You remember that?" she asked softly. A final half-step finally pulled her out of Alec's grasp, and as soon as it happened, Cal's face flashed a single, crystal-clear micro-expression. It was gone almost instantly, but she read it loud and clear: _happiness_.

"I remember a lot of things, Gill," he answered cryptically. And then he was gone.

He was several paces down the hall before she managed to speak again. "You're welcome to join us," she called.

Her body was curled around the doorframe – with one half leaning out into the hallway, watching him walk away, and the other half still in the conference room, where Alec stood waiting. And trust her, she had no idea _what_ she was doing, or _why_ she was doing it, or _how_ she'd managed to get everything twisted up in her brain, to the point that waiting for Cal's answer set a hundred butterflies fluttering in her stomach. It was cliché, and desperate, and so unbelievably inappropriate that she wanted to cry.

But she didn't.

Instead, when Cal turned to give the answer she expected (even though it wasn't the one she wanted to hear), all she could do was nod along with him.

"Much as I'd like to, something tells me it's best to keep my distance for at least a little while longer."

* * *

The elevator doors had barely closed by the time it all started. Rapid fire sentences about Alec's job and his colleagues… a possible promotion… pay increases and expense accounts… and when it was finally over – when they stepped out into the night air, in front of the building that had easily become her second home, two specific words caught Gillian's ear.

_Worth it._

"Trust me, Gill," he said. "All the extra hours and the extra stress? I finally feel like it was all… _worth it_. Like we're both about to get everything we've ever wanted. Don't you?"

For reasons she could not explain, Gillian's analytical mind chose that particular second – when Alec was looking at her as if everything in his world was falling into place and she was still at the center of it – to remind her that his current behavior practically screamed that he was high. His face told her he was hiding something, and his voice confirmed it. And it made her wonder how everything in his mind felt so '_right'_ when everything in hers felt so… _foreboding_.

She swallowed and let out a shaky breath, somehow finding the strength to smile when she felt like crying instead. Clearly, compartmentalization would be the death of her. She just kept letting the pattern continue. She was stuffing her emotions until she could deal with them in private, and in an utterly ironic way, it really wasn't all _that much_ better than Alec's habit of blurring _his_ reality by snorting powder up his nose.

And yes, of course Gillian knew she was behaving like a hypocrite. The trouble was, she didn't yet trust herself to behave any differently. Bad habits were still habits, and they were hard as hell to break.

They'd barely started driving before Alec's clammy hand landed on her knee. He squeezed and patted; allowed his fingers to tease the first few inches of her thigh and didn't hear the catch in her breathing that should have told him to stop. That it wasn't the time or the place, and that she wasn't interested at all.

But he didn't.

_Instead_, he blurted out the very last thing Gillian expected to hear. "Forgot to tell you that I promised we'd host a few people next weekend. Dinner… drinks… schmoozing. Show off my gorgeous wife and try to convince these guys that I'm the right man for the job. Sound good?"

No, it most certainly didn't.

It didn't sound good_ at all. _

In fact, poking herself in the eye with a rusty spear sounded just as appealing as spending a few hours with Alec's so-called friends – trying like hell not to 'read' every single one of them, while pretending she was the mild-mannered, obedient, _conforming_ wife that he wanted her to be, when in reality she could see every one of their dirty little secrets from fifty yards away.

So she pulled her knee away from his fingers and said stiffly, "How few?"

"Oh, I don't know, really. Ten, maybe twelve. And… uh… Gill? I know you feel better when he tags along for these things, but _please_ – for me – don't invite Cal this time, alright? Trust me. He wouldn't play nice with these guys. They aren't like him. Understand?"

If Alec hadn't sounded so genuinely apologetic for what he'd just said, Gillian would've refused. She would've called him out on the 'play nice' comment, insisted that Cal was as welcome in their home as anyone else. But because he understood that he sounded like the world's biggest, most pretentious ass, she decided to let it slide.

"Just for the record," she tentatively asked, "which '_guys'_ are you talking about this time?"

"You only know one of them, Gill, but don't worry – as long as you keep Lightman away that night, everything should be just fine. Believe me when I tell you, this is not a group of men who want their darkest secrets 'read' by a bulldog scientist over cocktails in our living room."

Gillian frowned, and edged her body even further away from him. "Why do you always make it sound like Cal is some kind of bully, or something? He's _not_. He's my…"

"Right, right. Your _friend_. I know. And these are _my_ friends, and just for once – _for once_ – I'd like to have an evening in _our_ home that does not involve _that_ man. That's not a crime, now is it?"

She sighed – hating that it sounded as if she was sulking, and hating that Alec always made her feel like she had to choose a side.

"_Anyway_," Alec continued, "Bill's spent the last month talking about this God-awful divorce case he's working. The wife's a dream, but the little prick husband is making everything complicated. Fighting the process every step of the way, you know? Nitpicking over custody and trying to manipulate everyone into giving him his way. And I just think that having Cal in the house – when he's right in the middle of his own divorce – would just be… _awkward_."

In the back of Gillian's mind, a tiny little flame of recognition began to spark. Bill. Alec's arrogant, skirt-chasing 'friend.' A man she'd always _suspected_ was more closely connected to the drug problems in their marriage than anyone would ever admit.

No, Gillian Foster did not hate many people in the world, but that guy? He was near the top of the very short list.

"Bill….?" she tried, because for some reason, she simply could _not_ remember his last name. And now – with that flame of recognition growing ever brighter by the second – suspicion was gnawing at her gut. Because if _that man_ was the same one that Cal…

"Jacobs," Alec quickly answered. "It's Bill Jacobs."

Just like that, those words that she'd spoken to Cal so many weeks ago – the words he'd repeated to her in their office building just a few moments earlier – took on an entirely new meaning. In her mind, they were a game changer.

'_We all make our choices.'_

Truth versus happiness… loyalty versus betrayal… the past versus the future. Those were her choices. Question was, could Gillian live with herself once she made the decision?


	16. Chapter 16

_**A/N: I can't thank you all enough for the support / feedback... it means the world to me. I must say, I very much enjoyed writing Gillian's perspective in this chapter (and throughout the next few). Usually it's easier for me to write Cal. And while I fear I might have taken her out of character just a little bit, I hope I won't scare any of you away. Thanks for reading! **_

* * *

The dress was new. It was black and short, yet appropriate enough not to draw too many pairs of eyes toward her hemline and away from her husband. And although Gillian had little doubt that she _looked_ fantastic on the outside, she _felt_ completely miserable on the inside. She did not want to spend the next three hours playing 'The Happy Wife' for Alec's corporate entourage, and she _certainly_ didn't want to do it with the knowledge that one of the men – William Jacobs – just so happened to be getting paid to make her best friend's life difficult.

Instead, she wanted to head back upstairs, stuff her heels in the back of the closet, ditch the fancy dress for some comfy sweats, and curl up with a romance novel or three. At least when Cal tagged along to these things she had someone to talk to while Alec worked the room. She had an ally; someone who could read faces and behavior even better than she could. Someone who made her feel as if she were the center of attention, rather than just a well-spoken accessory.

As soon as those specific thoughts popped into Gillian's brain, she groaned. She'd caught herself making comparisons between the men very frequently over the last few days, and she didn't understand _why_. _Why_ they'd started – _when_ they'd started – or _how_, heaven help her, to get them to stop. The fact that she was standing in her own living room, meticulously dressed to play the role Alec needed her to fill, and wrestling with her conscience as to how she was going to handle Jacobs made her feel horribly guilty.

She felt guilty for ever agreeing to stay with him, when it was becoming increasingly obvious that her heart was no longer invested in the marriage, and she felt awful for thinking of ways to help _Cal_ when the night was _supposed to be_ all about helping Alec's career.

It was like her own personal Pandora's Box hellhole – one that had been opened weeks earlier, on the night she tried to leave Alec and wound up comforting him as he sat crying on the bathroom floor instead. Everything felt twenty times harder than it needed to be, because she _did_ still love him. Truly. Trouble was, Gillian couldn't decide if she loved the man he _was_… or if she was stubbornly trying to hang on to the memory of the man he _used_ to be.

_And maybe…_

Maybe that wasn't enough anymore. Love. At what point did real emotion become habit and routine… and at what point did she need to take a risk and fly on her own, in hopes of finding something she'd only ever dreamed about?

Truth versus happiness, risk versus reward. Now that the dominoes were in place, only one real question remained unanswered.

Was she ready to watch them fall?

* * *

"You didn't invite him, did you?"

Alec's words were hushed, but they resonated loudly within her. Gillian was _beyond_ irritated. At the role she was supposed to fill, at the attitude she was supposed to maintain… at the pressure that had been following them around like a heavy black cloud. It was all just too much, and so that single comment pushed her otherwise sour mood headlong into resentment.

When her only answer was a narrowed-eye, jutted-chin glare, he held his hands up in surrender and began to back away. "I'm just saying… I don't want any extra stress here tonight. Fair enough?"

She rolled her eyes. "And _I'm_ just saying that you need to relax. I won't do anything to deliberately screw up your evening. Understand?"

He sighed and settled, then gently gripped her upper arms with both hands as he bent forward to look into her eyes. "It's like I told you before, Gill. I really do think we're both about to get everything we want. If this deal goes through, it'll mean a serious pay increase, okay? And those are just a few of the perks. Besides, think of what we could do with all that extra money each month."

"I don't care about the money, Alec. I never have. You know that."

He sighed. "Adopting a child isn't cheap, Gillian. How the hell do you expect us to pay for it without…"

She pulled out of his grasp quickly but carefully, ever mindful of the few guests that had already begun to arrive. "Just for the record, guilt trips won't work on me tonight. Those expenses were all covered, remember? A year ago… six months ago… it isn't my fault that our savings got eaten away because of some God-awful 'secret' you're still too afraid to admit out loud."

As soon as the words were out, Gillian knew she'd gone too far. His face, his body language, his posture… all of it changed. Tightened. And when the look in his eyes matched the disdain in her heart, and she realized they were squaring off at an impasse. Their timing, as per usual, was total shit. They'd soon be faced with a house full of people who cared about nothing but appearances and social standing, and if they didn't get their act together, both of them – _both of them_ – would probably be sorry. _Alec,_ because his carefully crafted image would be soiled, and _Gillian,_ because she'd be painted as the villain. Alec would blame her for the fallout, forget about his promises of sobriety, and run straight back into the arms of his white powdered safety net.

And in short, any shot she had at adoption or fostering would all be totally gone.

In a way, Gillian realized that they were both being selfish. She could have left him that night, after all; she'd had her bags packed and one foot out the door (emotionally speaking). Maybe it was… unfair… to give him an ultimatum that he might not even physically be able to keep. Maybe it was unfair to pin all of her hopes of motherhood onto a man that she wasn't even sure she was in love with anymore.

But on the other hand…he had no right to ask her to be a passive, supportive, _submissive_ wife in front of his 'friends,' when he'd spent the last six months making it very clear that their marriage took a backseat to the thrill and comfort he found whenever he was high.

"I have been clean for days, just like I promised," he said firmly. "All these ghosts from the past? We can never move forward if you don't find a way to let them _go_, Gill. So maybe it's time you made a promise of your own. Maybe it's time you decided what you really want: a family life with me – with a child that needs us, or… do you want the satisfaction of knowing that 'Gillian the Scientist' has a permanent one-up on 'Alec the Junkie?' You can't have it both ways anymore."

He'd hit her squarely in the Achilles' heel and they both knew it. Right or wrong, fact or fiction, Alec's point was well taken, and she turned introspective and silent as he slowly walked away to tend to his guests. She finally understood that the choices she had to make were larger than William Jacobs. Larger than marriage or divorce or love or friendship And as the doorbell rang behind her, Gillian knew that whatever the outcome – whatever decision she made – it was finally time to remain true to herself.

* * *

"_Let me tell you, love… this guy is as nasty as they come. He's like a rabid wolverine in a power tie."_

As soon as William Jacobs shook her hand, Gillian couldn't help but think that Cal's description had been spot-on. She remembered him easily now. All the details that time had begun to erase came flooding back to her senses with the simple touch of his hand against hers.

She remembered the day, years earlier, when they'd first been introduced. Back when Jacobs was newly married and fresh out of Grad school. She'd noticed a certain set of… quirks… that _now_ seemed all too familiar, but back _then_, had just been random eccentricities that she'd attributed to a caffeine habit and a lack of sleep.

_Oh, how naïve she'd been._

Manic energy. Shifty eyes. The constant twitch of his nose, and all of the secrets he tried to tuck away behind his over-inflated smiles. He made gestures that were designed to make _anyone else_ comfortable, but just made _her_ suspicious instead. Yes, she remembered him well. And she easily recalled the way he'd made her feel over the past few years, _each and every time they'd met_, when his handshakes had been too rough and his parting hugs had lingered just a bit too long.

All the things she hated about Alec's drug use – all the physical signs and symptoms that had gotten progressively more difficult to ignore – _all of them_ manifested in her memories. In Cal's world, this man was William Jacobs, attorney from hell. But in Alec's world, he'd always been Bill. Just Bill. Punchy, driven, _goal-oriented_ Bill, who'd been oh-so-helpful in teaching Alec to manage his stress and find his footing in the cutthroat world of Washington politics.

'_Manage his stress._' Yes, those had been Alec's exact words, and yes, she'd long suspected the truth behind them. And now, as "punchy Bill" stood in her foyer, pressing his cold, rough lips against the back of her hand and letting his eyes track the depth of her cleavage, she easily remembered why she hated him.

_Rabid wolverine, indeed. _

* * *

**_To be continued..._ **


	17. Chapter 17

She heard the phone ringing, but his hand in hers prevented Gillian from answering the call. And although she was almost certain it was Cal, she was relieved to know that she wouldn't need to lie to him yet.

'_I can't really talk right now, Cal. I'm… um… busy schmoozing a certain wolverine and a room full of men who can't seem to understand that my eyes are several inches _north_ of my cleavage.'_

No, a conversation like that would've lured him right into the middle of her living room faster than Alec Foster could've said "Pandora's Box." She'd never been more thankful for voice mail in her _life_.

"It's lovely to see you again, Gillian."

If those words had been spoken by anyone else, she might have been flattered. She might have ignored the arrogance that bloomed in his eyes when he lifted her hand to his lips, or the unease she felt in her gut seconds later, when his fingers were still somehow tangled in hers.

But she wasn't flattered _at all_. And she knew that ignoring anything while in his presence would almost certainly be a mistake.

"Mr. Jacobs," she finally managed.

The reply was terse and slightly rude, but it was all the encouragement he needed to release her. And when he did, Gillian took a single step backwards – allowing the extra space between them to serve as a buffer under the guise of hospitality. With both arms extended, she reached for his jacket. "May I take your coat?" she asked.

Though Bill's polite expression did not falter, there was something about the way his right hand protectively (_and instantly_) covered his pocket that caught Gillian's attention. It was a move she'd seen Alec make dozens of times, and although she had no real reason to suspect anything (much less that the man was daring enough to bring a poorly hidden stash of cocaine into her home and into a rather upscale cocktail party), she couldn't help but wonder if there was a connection. A memory, perhaps. Something… sensory…that made him want to protect his privacy, even though she'd made no move to invade it.

Most likely, it was innocent.

Maybe he fidgeted, just like Cal.

Maybe he was nervous, or suspicious, or a dozen other things that could all easily be explained.

Maybe it was all in her imagination – just a side effect of the fact that she hated him for what she'd always _assumed_ he'd done to Alec, and for what she now _knew_ he was trying to do to Cal.

An arrogant smile graced his thin lips as he brushed his free hand up the lapel and inched back into her space again. "Think I'll keep it, just in case."

* * *

Cal knew the stillness was only temporary; that he'd have Emily there with him again, soon. That he'd hear her laughter. Tell her that he loved her, and that he missed her, and that he was sorry everything was such a bloody mess. And even though he knew that she was coping as well as could be expected, the realization that she had gotten dragged right into the middle of his problems with Zoe made him feel like a failure.

_She_ had left _him_, but still… in the end, they were still a broken family. And he knew from experience exactly how unsettling that felt. He'd wanted more for Emily, and sometimes – when the silence in his home was far too much of a contrast with the cacophony of voices in his head – he felt like an utter hypocrite.

The feeling of 'change' was slowly suffocating him. He was tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop – of understanding that he was just as far from the finish line as he was from the starting line, and that along the way, something was bound to go wrong. In a word, he felt… _unsettled_.

Nighttime was always the worst. He could handle the silence so much better during daylight hours, when the promise of the work day greeted him, and the distraction of so many cases kept his mind from spinning out of control… wondering himself sick about what Emily was doing, or how she was feeling, or if she needed him. Gillian helped immensely – much more than he'd ever managed to tell her in actual _words_. She was a rock, and despite the turmoil within her own marriage, she never hesitated to listen or to offer support (_even though they both knew that his stubborn pride might never allow him to accept it_).

Cal knew their relationship was changing. He could feel it. Words that had always been casual and spontaneous now seemed riddled with hidden meanings and unspoken potential. Conversations became opportunities that, in a different lifetime, he might have _wanted_ to take, but that he knew would likely always remain untouchable in this one.

"_I think it's best to keep my distance."_

The words he'd spoken days earlier had been a warning – meant more for himself than for Gillian. And as he sat there, with his phone in one hand and his car keys in the other, wondering why she hadn't answered, he realized that he couldn't call her back again. Not so soon. Not when the smallest bit of companionship she offered, or the tiniest inkling of… attraction… he might find on her face (or in her voice) could likely spark a flame within him that, if left to its own devices, would almost certainly consume them both.

He was beginning to see it now. The bond between them that Zoe had always seen; the one she'd feared.

And he understood it, too. The fear. Because if he and Gillian had grown so much closer in a month (_before his divorce was even final and while her marriage was still struggling_) then he shuddered to think how strong their bond might become if the few remaining boundaries between them were finally allowed to fall.

* * *

Cal's plan was still half-formed by the time he settled into the taxi. He was tired of sitting still; tired of just accepting the fact that his life had become so… different. He wanted to do something. To feel emotions that he didn't have to ignore, or hide, or justify. He just wanted to live.

He did _not_ want to get drunk. Not completely. Instead, he craved a pleasant sort of _numbness_. Enough alcohol to make it harder to remember why his heart hurt so badly, but still keep him sober enough to stand (perhaps shakily) on his own two feet.

Granted, he was swapping one bad habit for another. Reaching for alcohol to fill the void left by depression; choosing liquid companionship instead of denial. He was using a manmade substance (_an addictive one, at that_) to help avoid feelings that weren't ready to be handled in the light of day. And yet again, he was left feeling like a bloody hypocrite. He'd judged and worried about Gillian for 'compartmentalizing' her feelings, even though he was guilty of doing the same exact thing.

_How utterly, utterly pitiful._

And as he handed the driver a twenty and tried to ignore the pull in his gut that told him he needed to go back home, Cal stepped out of the cab and made his way to the bar.

* * *

Good versus evil.

Gillian had watched it in the movies a thousand times; a scene in which the protagonist is faced with the proverbial angel on one shoulder, and devil on the other. And she'd always thought it was crazy, because why would _anyone_ – when faced with those options – ever stray from the honorable path?

She hated labels. Hated that people always saw her as a 'good girl.' That they looked past her flaws and put her on some twisted, metaphoric pedestal, just because that's what they _assumed_ she deserved. Alec and Cal both did it, even though she'd warned them to stop. And yes, of course, their motives were different. But in the end – _in the end_ – all they really wanted to do was protect her.

She knew that now.

And trust her… Gillian had not yet decided what she was going to do. She could either make a deal with the devil in order to try and help her friend (and risk the details making their way back to Alec)… or, she could ignore the opportunity in order to keep the promise she made about not "making waves." Not causing any extra stress.

The tipping point came innocently – and ironically – from Jacobs himself.

They'd been standing in the living room, just a few feet away from the other guests, when he turned to her and said, "You have a lovely home, Gillian."

That was all; no hidden agenda and no bullshit. His words and his tone were both sincere, and for a fleeting moment, she'd almost forgotten that she hated him.

_Almost_.

But then Alec sidled up to them – trying to pretend he'd hadn't been eavesdropping on their entire conversation – and made a few deliberately hateful comments that changed the entire course of the evening in one fell swoop.

"We just had the sofa cleaned, actually. You know how soft-hearted my wife can be, Bill. One of her… shall we say, _charity cases_… crashed on it a few weeks back and it needed some major work. A bit of professional cleaning, so to speak. Because let's be honest, Gilly. The memory lingered. Didn't it?"

And just like that… she made her choice.

_Devil, one… angel, zero._

* * *

Near the end of his first glass, Cal began to wonder if she'd come for him. It was the same bar he'd been in a month earlier, when he'd thrown his phone against the wall and wound up leaving with her, piss drunk and slumped against her body and wishing, mightily, that he was a stronger man.

He wondered if she was alright. If she was lonely. If she was fighting with Alec, or if, heaven help him, they were in bed together instead. Making up for lost time and trying to set things right in their marriage.

And almost as soon as _that particular_ image popped into his brain – the image of Gillian, naked and writhing beneath a man that was _supposed_ to love her – he felt it. Guilt, nausea, and an overwhelming ache instantly settled themselves into the pit of his stomach and squeezed in an iron-tight grip.

_Bloody hell._

Maybe it was the liquor. Maybe he'd already had enough to make reality fuzzy, and conjure up an emotional response that was far more intense than anything he'd seen outside of his restless dreams. His mind's eye continued to taunt him with the vision of Gillian's body, breathless and aching in the throes of passion with a faceless man – one that was most definitely _not_ him – and he had to literally squeeze his eyes and tighten his fists just to shake himself out of it, lest he wind up vomiting right on the very stool where he sat.

_That was new. That was very, _very_ new._

Physical attraction, flirtatious banter, even a bit of innuendo – with Gillian, those things were normal. They were, though they probably shouldn't have been, familiar.

But now, he felt as though he was standing on entirely new ground. Thrown into an alternate reality in which 'attraction' and 'innuendo' didn't even come close to describing what he was suddenly feeling for her.

Because while one of the voices in his head screamed that he still loved Zoe (a tiny, muffled voice far away in the background and almost entirely silenced by the others), his _body_ was busy screaming something entirely different. That he wanted Gillian with every last inch of himself, raw and unfiltered, and even though things might go cataclysmically wrong between them, living without her in that way felt almost cruel.

Every emotion he'd ever felt for both women suddenly seemed magnified by tenfold. Sexual attraction, love, desire, curiosity – all of it clawed at him. Scratched at his sanity until he couldn't tell which end was up, which was down, or how in God's name everything had changed so bloody quickly.

And as for his heart? His empty, aching, predictably stubborn heart?

All it knew for certain was that he needed another drink.

* * *

**_To be continued... _**

**_(The next chapter will pick up right where this one ends.)_**


	18. Chapter 18

_**(A/N) Just a quick note: I don't think I've ever written anything that could be considered as a 'trigger' (and forgive me if I'm not using that term correctly), but I was worried that some of what happens to Gillian's character throughout this chapter might be considered in that way. Don't let me scare you, it's nothing graphic. It's just... not something I've ever written before, so I thought it would be better to be safe than sorry, and that I'd give a little warning up front.**_

_**Thanks again for reading. It's much appreciated, as always!**_

* * *

"_We just had the sofa cleaned, actually. You know how soft-hearted my wife can be, Bill. One of her… shall we say,_ charity cases… _crashed on it a few weeks back and it needed some major work. A bit of professional cleaning, so to speak. Because let's be honest, Gilly. The memory lingered. Didn't it?"_

_And just like that… she made her choice._

Devil, one… angel, zero.

* * *

"I appreciate the tour, Gill, but really… it wasn't necessary."

She'd led him into the study – a room that was well out of earshot of any of the guests, including Alec, and now that zero hour was upon her, Gillian felt much more settled about what she was about to do. She'd never blackmailed anyone in her entire life, but this? Maybe the old adage was right.

Maybe there really was a first time for everything.

"It was my pleasure," she answered, careful to close and latch the door behind them as she spoke. She kept her voice warm and smooth, trying to hide the fact that her mind's eye had already conjured up a half-dozen images of _her_ knee connecting sharply with _his_ groin, just for fun.

"If memory serves, you're a fan of both literature _and_ architecture. And so I thought it was only fitting to bring you here. To save the best room for last, so to speak."

Jacobs slowly nodded. His eyes shifted away from hers and glided across her lips, her throat, and finally her cleavage, where they lingered much too long for the gesture to be considered accidental. "Fitting, indeed," he answered. "And I must say, I do have a definite appreciation for the privacy here. Never would've guessed that four solid walls could feel so… liberating."

_Make that a full dozen images. If he tried to force her hand, she'd 'knee' him so hard that he wouldn't be able to walk straight for _weeks_. _

The mere sight of the arousal on his face had begun to make Gillian nauseous. But because she wasn't about to give the game away so easily, she took a deep breath and schooled her features. "Yes, it certainly is a haven," she answered. "It's very secluded. Very stimulating. A woman could certainly waste many hours here, driven to distraction by thoughts and daydreams, and other… interesting activities. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Jacobs?"

The taste of bile rose up the back of Gillian's throat, but she swallowed it down without so much as a wince_._ Looking at _that man_, pretending to have _those feelings_, just to throw him off guard while she waited for the right moment to… pounce… was making Gillian sick and sweaty.

Mostly sick.

Truth be told, there were exactly two men for which she'd had sexual feelings in the last eight years – one of which she'd never, _ever_ admit aloud. And neither of them bore _any_ resemblance to the wolverine-faced, egomaniacal creep that stood before her, with blackened eyes and parted lips.

She needed a drink and a shower. Possibly two of each.

Jacobs smiled, began to study her with a look that could only be described as feral, and inched closer toward her body. He was definitely suspicious about why she'd lured him there – under the guise of a tour they both knew he didn't want or need – and it was blatantly obvious that he assumed her interests were _entirely_ sexual.

Yes, he was a stupid, self-centered_, predictable_ man who obviously made a habit of thinking with his smaller head, rather than his larger one.

"Please," he said softly, against strained lips that covered perfectly white, aggressive teeth. "Call me Bill."

* * *

Two women had already approached him. One was blonde, curvaceous, and far too young for him, and the other was brunette and brilliantly tongue-tied. But he'd turned them both away almost immediately. They'd been seduced by the accent and the age difference, and he knew it. They'd wanted to fix him. Had both decided to ignore the wedding ring he still wore on his left hand, and the look of distraction in his eyes each and every time he took a pull from his glass.

He'd barely even looked at them.

But the _third_ woman had been different.

She was raven haired and beautiful, with long, thick curls like Zoe, and delicate porcelain features like Gillian. She'd been playful, yet reserved. Confident and flirtatious, yet ever so slightly… shy.

The tiny measure of hesitation in her eyes had told him that she couldn't quite understand why she'd approached him, or what she really wanted. And the unspoken question that burned between them was obvious: Did sexual attraction trump the lack of an emotional connection? And if so – if she could lose herself in his body, and allow his hands and his mouth to ease every ounce of tension from her frame – was a temporary distraction worth the inevitable pain that would find them come sunrise?

They were complete strangers. With different lives, different personalities, and different paths.

The element of risk made the possibilities oh-so attractive, even as the guilt Cal felt _each and every time_ his fingers traced her jaw, or her cheekbone, or the soft slope of her throat, made him feel like a weakly pathetic bastard.

Good versus evil; the proverbial angel on his left shoulder, devil on his right. He'd seen it in the cinema a thousand times – lived through it a few hundred – and he'd always _tried_ to take the honorable path. 'Tried' being the operative word, because there had been many, many moments (_more than he could ever amend_) when he'd chosen incorrectly.

Back when youth made him arrogant, and before marriage made him mature, he'd had the liberty to be foolish. Spontaneous. Impulsive. He hadn't '_thought_,'… he'd '_felt_.'

And now that he found himself unbound to both youth and fidelity, he struggled. He was not young, and he was not married. He was a middle aged man, sitting with a beautiful, sexually vivacious woman, who wanted him desperately. _Desperately_. She wanted his body – wanted to give him hers in return – and Cal knew he would be absolutely crazy to turn it down. Technically, he didn't have to walk away. Once again, he could '_feel_.' Not '_think_.'

She was a woman with _Zoe's_ body and _Gillian's_ face, but…

He hesitated. He dropped his hands from her skin and curled one hand around his glass while his body tried to protest the decision that his mind had already made.

His groin chose 'devil,' but his _heart_...

All of a sudden, his heart didn't seem so stubborn anymore. It wanted the real thing, not a substitute for something he'd likely never be able to have. And in the end, when he gently kissed her cheek and paid the driver for her fare, Cal found peace within his decision as he walked back into the bar, alone.

_Angel, one… devil, zero._

* * *

Bill's jacket had been tossed over the back of a chair and his tie was seconds from joining it, by the time Gillian realized that she was about to be in _way_ over her head. She hadn't planned for him to act so quickly. She'd expected time to think, to breathe, and to find an escape hatch, if necessary, before he morphed from wolverine to octopus and began focusing single mindedly on how to get her out of her dress.

Clearly, she'd underestimated his libido.

And if Alec had any idea what was happening just a few rooms away from his posh, narcissistic party, he would've certainly strangled them both. She knew needed to calm down. Make a plan. And above all else, keep his hands _away_ from her body.

She wasn't quite sure why her thoughts turned to Cal in that moment. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the pressure… maybe it was because he was currently _the only man_ to whom she was sexually attracted, and no matter how wrong it felt to admit it – no matter how much guilt it brought to the table – the truth was still the truth. She was married to a man she loved, but didn't want… was overwhelmingly attached and attracted to one she could never have… and it was, apparently, impossible for her to think of a dangerous, sexually charged situation without automatically including Cal.

_Jesus, that made her sound like such a…_

"There's no point fighting it, Gillian," he said. He tugged his tie off, pried open the first button on his white oxford shirt, and circled ever closer to her, until she was quite literally backed into a corner, between the book case and the edge of the large wooden antique desk.

"I saw that look in your eyes when you led me in here," he breathed. "The one that was all but screaming about an ulterior motive. So go ahead. Tell me. What's your pleasure?"

It was a very large room, but with Bill standing directly in front of her, Gillian's options were limited. He was not a small man. He was tall and muscular, with a build that might have been seen by some women as attractive, but left her feeling intimidated instead. And when he trailed a single finger across the length of her collar bone – leaning forward to brush his lips against her cheek as he let out a sound that made her blood run cold – intimidation turned quickly to fear.

_Clearly_, her logic had been flawed. She'd been outsmarted. Out played. Beaten at her own game, before it had barely begun. Her only hope now was to make enough noise to draw a crowd, and try to find something with which to defend herself until help arrived.

But she would not go down without a fight. Because Gillian Foster was nobody's victim.

He had one hand on her waist and was fumbling with his belt buckle by the time she spotted the heavy, metal frame on the bookcase nearby. And when she lifted it off the shelf and finally saw the image inside, she wanted to cry.

Not out of fear. Out of _relief_.

Complete, overwhelming, powerful _relief_.

Because it was _Cal's_ face staring up at her behind the glass… _Cal's_ smile that she saw, strengthening her resolve and reminding her why she'd led Jacobs into the room in the first place. And even though she knew her plan was half-assed and entirely crazy, it was far too late to back out on it now.

* * *

He wanted to call her again. As soon as the driver pulled away and the front door was latched, Cal gripped his phone and hovered his fingers over the button that would lead him to Gillian's voice.

But he didn't press it.

He wasn't entirely drunk, but he wasn't entirely sober, either, and in that state, he didn't trust the words that might come out of his mouth if she answered. _'I met a woman, Gill. She looked like you. And when I touched her face, I felt_…"

Yeah.

That wouldn't solve anything _at all_. He'd still be lonely. Still be _alone_, in his big house, in his big bed, with a big pile of regret and guilt and tangled emotions, just waiting to suffocate them both. Everything would be so much easier if he didn't want her so badly. If they hadn't grown so close. If he didn't...

_Bloody hell_. _He couldn't even say the word in his own mind._

Lingering arousal made him painfully frustrated, and the effects of the Scotch made his thoughts feel muddy. Moments later, when he flopped down onto his mattress and allowed heavy lids to close immediately, he welcomed the darkness. The silence. This time, it began to give him peace. An unexpected sense of comfort in knowing that, for once, he'd managed to think with his big head instead of his little one. That he hadn't given into temptation. And inevitably, as the image of Gillian's beautiful face began to flood his imagination once again, one thing instantly became clear.

He needed to move forward. For his sanity, as well as her protection.

He needed to pick up the pieces of his broken heart and his broken life, try to mend them back together, and be thankful for the relationship that he _could_ allow himself to have with her, every single day. Foster and Lightman… Bonnie and Clyde… yin and yang. They were connected, intrinsically. Stronger together, and weaker apart.

And regardless of the attraction he felt growing between them – the one that was decidedly sexual, and becoming more and more difficult to ignore with each passing day – he had faith that somehow, some way, they'd find their footing.

He was asleep before he remembered the phone, or why he'd left it propped on the pillow near his head, just in case she needed him. And when he woke the next morning, he tried like hell to ignore the pang of regret he felt when the screen showed one missed call from her, logged just a few moments after he'd drifted into unconsciousness.

* * *

Gillian held the edges of the picture frame in a vice-like grip. She propped it in front of her chest like a makeshift shield, so that the image of Cal faced outward, toward Jacobs. And as soon as it was in place, she could breathe again. Confidence flowed within her, and she wasn't afraid. She would _not_ be his victim – not now, and not ever.

Thanks to Cal.

_Alright, fine_… she knew it was cliché and somewhat insane to think that she'd _actually_ drawn strength from his photo. He was miles away, with his own problems and his own life, and the very last thing he was probably thinking about was her. But still, the die-hard romantic in her couldn't help but wonder if maybe, _just maybe_…"

Jacobs was standing so close to her that he actually had to shift backwards a few paces to see what she'd grabbed, and when he did, he snickered. "Who the hell is that, anyway?" he asked.

He'd made quick work of the belt buckle and began to lower his zipper, when, at the last possible second… he hesitated. She watched recognition cloud the mix of arousal and aggression in his eyes, until he finally asked the obvious question. "And why the hell does he look so familiar?"

_Checkmate_.

"He's my business partner," she answered. Her voice was calm and confident, and it didn't take much time at all before her footsteps began to carry her _toward_ the spot where Bill Jacobs now stood in front of the desk that would've likely become ground zero for her greatest humiliation.

With narrowed, suspicious eyes, he repeated her words. "Business partner," he said. And then he snickered again. "So that's the guy, then? The one Alec says you're such good friends with? Tell me Gillian… have you ever done this with him?"

And whatever hesitation she'd seen from him simply vanished as quickly as it came, as she watched him drop his leather belt onto the floor with his shirt. _That move_ made her falter. It made her squeeze the heavy frame so tightly that its corners began to gouge into her palms. The pain made her wonder just exactly how hard she'd have to strike him, if he tried to force her to...

"I'm no expert in all that phony face reading nonsense, but I can tell you this: that's fear on your face. And all it's doing right now is making me want this even more."

Gillian knew she likely had only a few more seconds - at most - before Jacobs large body overpowered hers and the fear she was trying (and failing) to hide on her face became real, raw pain. And when he met her eyes one last time, reaching out for her hips with cold, menacing hands, she knew exactly what she needed to say. She knew the words to use... the angle to play... the way to beat him at his own game, and keep every last ounce of her dignity intact.

"His name is Cal Lightman," she said loudly. She emphasized every single syllable, just to see how he'd react. How quickly he'd react. And then despite the burning in her gut that told her she would certainly vomit on him if she so much as dared to touch her with a single finger, she smiled. Just because she knew that move would throw him off course just as easily as the sound of Cal's name had already done.

_It worked._

She smiled as he paled, and that's when she knew with absolute certainty that the tide between them had turned.

"He's a brilliant scientist," she continued. "A pioneer in the world of lie detection and micro-expression. Perhaps you've… _oh, I don't know_… heard of him?"

Every single thing Gillian had learned about liars and the secrets they kept suddenly flashed through her mind in sequence as she took in Bill's reaction. First, his breathing changed. Then his posture straightened. He blinked and gestured… looked around the room to avoid her gaze… until finally, _finally_, he made the obvious connection.

He bent down to grab his shirt and angrily tugged his arms through the sleeves, then bent again to retrieve his belt. "What exactly do you want from me, Gillian?"

Rather than answer him immediately, she hugged the frame against her chest and propped one hand on her hip. Her confidence was flowing freely now that he'd gotten fully dressed again, and she had no intentions of walking away before she'd finished what she started. "Rumor has it that you are the attorney handling the Landau-Lightman divorce case. So tell me, _Bill_. Is that correct?"

Jacobs sighed, gritting his teeth in an effort not to overreact and draw a crowd against the still-locked door. "Obviously, you know I am."

"Well, then what I _want_ is very simple. Doctor Lightman loves his daughter very much. He is a fantastic father, and he's done a better job raising Emily than Zoe Landau could've ever hoped to accomplish on her own. Using a stack of black and white legal documents to take him out of Emily's life – even fifty percent of the time – would severely impact both of them, and what I _want_ is for you to encourage your client to reconsider."

Gillian watched a mixture of embarrassment, anger, and humiliation cross Bill's face as he realized – belatedly – that he'd been entirely played. By a woman. A woman he'd assumed wanted to get in his _pants_, rather than into his _head_. He was livid, and the depth of his indignation was barely contained.

"Then I take it you've never actually _met_ Ms. Landau," he said through gritted teeth. "Because believe me… she's as about as likely to reconsider this petition as the sky is to turn green."

Gillian nodded. Pretended to consider his words. And then she made the exact same expression she'd seen Cal make at least a hundred times, when caught at a crossroads with one of their marks. It was part smug arrogance, and part piteous sympathy… as if she'd never expected anyone to be so unbelievably gullible as to think she was about to back off.

"I've met her many times, Mr. Jacobs," she replied. "Granted, Zoe is a difficult woman. She's stubborn, and strong willed, and it will take someone with just the right…shall we say, _motivation_… to convince her that Cal deserves his role in Emily's life just as much as she does."

Not even bothering to hide the resentment in his eyes, Bill answered with a single, angry word. "Motivation?"

Up until that very moment, Gillian did not know how she'd actually find the right words to finish what she'd started. How she'd ever manage to verbalize her hatred for this man, and morph that with her unyielding friendship with Cal to make him understand that she was very, _very_ serious. But all it took was one final glance at the photo she still held against her chest, and Gillian had no trouble speaking her mind.

"Convince Zoe Landau to be a lot more flexible with her custody demands, or _I_ will tell every single one of those people out there – and anyone else who will listen, including the Lightman Group's police contacts and any reporter I can find – that _you_ are nothing but an upscale dealer, just looking for the next big payday. That you're a power-suited, no-nonsense attorney with dreams of political grandeur by day, and by night you're a back alley addict, desperate to keep your second identity hidden from everyone. So tell me, Mr. Jacobs. Do we have a deal? Or do you need a few minutes to think it over?"

Deceit, blackmail, emotional extortion. Gillian knew she had committed all three. But that choice she'd made? The one that left the devil on her right shoulder, holding a one point advantage over the angel on her left?

In her heart of hearts, she knew it was the right decision.

Bill was just about to turn the corner and walk out of the room when her final words stopped him cold. "I know you were the one who did this to Alec," she said calmly. "I know you were the one who got him hooked. I saw the truth written all over your face, about everything. Drugs, power, sex, greed. And what I _saw_ tells me that you wouldn't have thought twice about raping me here tonight, in _my_ house, while _my_ husband – a man who is supposed to be your friend – stands down the hall, completely oblivious to what a bastard you are. So just to keep things _crystal_ clear, mark my words: if you don't manage to hold up your end of the bargain, I _will_ tell him everything. And _then_ I will tell Cal. I'll leave it up to you to decide which one of them you ought to fear more."

* * *

Gillian was alone in the study, still shaking from lingering adrenaline and the thought of what Jacobs could have done to her, when she reached for the phone. In the distance, the muffled voices of a dozen different people droned on and on about nonsensical things. Some laughed. Some swore. Alec's voice was chief among them, slightly louder than the rest, but obviously still oblivious as to where she was or what she'd done.

He did not come looking for her.

And she didn't know what was worse: sitting on the bathroom floor with a broken, distraught man who swore he'd _try_ to love her enough to fight his demons, or… realizing that she was surrounded by a house full of people that didn't actually care about her at all. And that the one person who did was miles away, probably thinking of anything else in the world besides her.

Still... she couldn't help herself.

She lifted the receiver without thought. Dialed Cal's number automatically. Felt the bittersweet ache in her chest grow louder with each unanswered ring, and then finally the peace she felt at the simple sound of his lilting voice through the recorded greeting.

_'You've reached Cal Lightman. Please leave a message.'_

Eight simple words meant for anyone, but still... they soothed her. And even though her brain knew that she needed to keep her distance, in her heart…

_Oh, in her heart…_

All she wanted was to feel his solid arms around her, and hear the cadence of his heartbeat as it drummed in time with hers.


	19. Chapter 19

_**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has been so supportive throughout the writing process of this story. It's taken over my sanity, and every plan I had when I started writing it has flown out the window. There's still a plan, but it keeps... evolving. Blame the characters, I guess. :) In any case, I just hope that I'm able to translate everything from my brain into typed word and keep everything on track for each of you. Also, special thanks to solveariddle. This entire chapter was inspired by a comment she made, and I just wanted to let her know how much I appreciated the feedback. Hope you all enjoy!**_

* * *

The very first thought that went through Cal's brain on that Saturday morning was that everything sounded entirely too… _cheerful_… for his liking. Because it was really bloody early, and he'd barely slept at all, and there were actual birds on his windowsill, singing some kind of irritating melody that might have sounded beautiful to the rest of the city, but to him, sounded like nails on a chalkboard.

He was _not_ a morning person.

His head pounded in protest as he pulled a pillow down over his eyes and tried in vain to block the sunlight so he could drift back to sleep. He flopped and jostled; fought with the covers until they tangled at his feet but still, his body refused to cooperate. He'd already moved enough to get his brain partially awake, which in turn made his stomach insist on food and made his bladder insist on visiting the loo.

_And then_, just as he started cursing a body that operated like clockwork (even on the bloody weekend), he heard it: the soft, steady beeping sound coming from his cell phone. The one that told him that even though it was barely daybreak, he'd already missed a call. _Brilliant_.

His _next_ thought was that it was far too early to deal with whatever fresh hell awaited him in voicemail limbo at the other end of the line. A new case… an old client… some self-serving, semi-legitimate question from Zoe's attorney. Surely, the world would not implode if he waited to check it until _after_ he'd eaten and showered, and had a cup or three of tea just to clear his head. No, he didn't see any possible 'good' that could come from such an irritating noise. Electronic nagging, it was; cruel and unusual punishment for such an ungodly early hour of the day.

He was still too groggy to put the pieces together and remember that he'd left the bloody thing in his bed, just in case Gillian called him back. His grouching was on a roll, gathering steam by the second, and so he didn't feel patient enough to just check the bloody display to find out who the message was from, or when they'd actually called. For whatever reason, it didn't seem important enough.

_But_…

Right around the time his grumbling turned into _actual_ movement and he began to get out of bed, Cal realized his mistake. Realization seeped into is groggy head letter by letter, and it forced his hand to shoot blindly across the mattress and fumble for the phone. And sure enough, it took only a quick glance at the call log to confirm his stupidity.

_Gillian_.

The message was from Gillian.

* * *

"_Hi Cal, It's me. I was just calling to say goodnight. Listen, we haven't had much of a chance to talk these last couple of days, and I just … I just miss you. That's all. And I wanted to hear your voice. Anyway, I know it's late, and I know you're probably busy with a dozen different things, but… if you get this in the next few hours, could you please call me back? I'm sure I'll still be awake, so don't worry about the time. It's fine. And I'm fine. Really. I just… I just miss you."_

* * *

Cal sighed, deep and long. He let all of the breath in his body out in an over-exaggerated, drawn out puff, and then he actually began to laugh. At himself. For being such a colossal idiot.

He remembered sitting at that bar, feeling sick to his stomach as soon as his over-active mind conjured up the image of Gillian –_ his Gillian _– naked in Alec Foster's arms, while he pouted and pined and denied his feelings, just like a scared little boy. Oh, how ridiculous that all looked in the light of day, now that he'd actually heard her voice.

_That realization_ hit him like a kick to his balls, because he knew Gillian. Knew her better than anyone else in the world. And there was absolutely no reason she'd called him _that late_ to just… talk. Just to "_say goodnight_."

There was no reason at all.

Morbid curiosity made him wonder how that scene would've played out, though. "_I can't come to bed yet, Alec. I have to call Cal first. Because I miss him, and I need to hear his voice."_

No, that wasn't bloody likely.

* * *

Cal sat in the middle of his bed, frowning as he replayed her message over and over again. It wasn't until around the tenth time he listened that he began to put specific pieces together and realize what she'd actually said. Twice.

"…_Miss you_…"

Yes, she'd said those words – those _exact_ words – twice, in the span of a few short seconds.

_Twice_.

To most people, that would not have been a game changer, but to him? It was. It _definitely_ was.

She'd missed _him_, and she'd wanted to hear _his_ voice, and hearing _those_ words come out of _her_ mouth made him feel heartsick with worry, yet cautiously optimistic all at the same time. Because whatever had happened… whatever triggered her call in the first place… she'd turned to _him_. Not Alec.

_Him. Not Alec._

It _should_ have been a warning sign. He should have seen it as proof that things really _were_ changing between them, in a real, tangible, not-in-his-own-imagination kind of way. That maybe Gillian could feel it too. Maybe it wasn't something that he needed to run from, or cloud with alcohol and the company of other women.

Bloody hell_… other women._

Right on cue, latent, lingering remorse made him shiver, and he tossed the phone onto the other side of the mattress, so that it was as far away from his body as possible without actually being on the floor. He reacted as if Gillian's recorded voice could _hear_ his subconscious thoughts. As if she would know what he'd almost done, with a perfect stranger who had _her_ beautiful face.

What was that he'd promised himself? About keeping his distance? About moving forward, just to protect their business, and their friendship, and _her_ marriage?

Apparently, it was all just total crap. Just wishful thinking, brought on by guilt and his admiral attempt to be a "good boy." To do the "right thing."

Logically, Cal knew that he had no romantic ties to Gillian Foster at all. Absolutely none. And if he'd chosen to bed that other woman, he could have. He could've taken her home and done whatever his horny little heart had desired, without fear of consequence. _But_…

Maybe _that_ was all just wishful thinking, too.

Because sitting there, with Gillian's voice in his head and the thought of how differently the morning _could_ have begun – with him naked and hung over, and holding another woman in his arms – he felt absolute relief that he'd gone home alone.

And trust him, never before in his entire _life_ had Cal Lightman felt 'relief' at _not_ getting laid. No, no… _that_ thought process went against all of his instincts. It went against every decidedly 'male' impulse in his body, and the reality of it was utterly laughable. Because now that he'd begun to gain some perspective – now that he'd had a few broken hours of sleep and the effects of the alcohol had long worn off – it all made perfect sense.

Apparently, what he'd begun to come to terms with at that bar had been dead-on accurate. He still wanted her – _her_,_ not a replacement_ – with every inch of himself, cataclysmic consequences be damned. He could feel it, in his bones and in his heart. But beyond that… beyond the physical need that burned low in his pelvis at the mere thought of being with her… he felt a familiar emotion he'd long since buried begin to stir in his gut.

One that left him feeling lightheaded, and weak kneed, and utterly helpless. Because without realizing it had started until it was far too late to stop himself, it seemed that he'd fallen in…

_No_.

Cal deliberately stopped short, before the rest of that sentence could flash through his brain. Sexual attraction was one thing; he could handle that. Could fight it… learn to ignore it, because he had to. Because really, he had no other option.

But this?

It was decidedly different.

And so it was by sheer stubbornness alone that he jammed his fists into the mattress on either side of his hips and refused to admit that word, even internally. Because _that word_?The one that sat dangerously poised on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to make itself known?

It was the big one; four letters and a single syllable that would change absolutely everything between them.

And he couldn't even say it to himself.

* * *

The phone rang near lunchtime, when she'd just finished baking her second batch of cookies, and half the rooms in the house had been scrubbed from floor to ceiling. A quick glance at the display confirmed what she'd already suspected, and although Gillian had been expecting his call, she couldn't help but feel anxious as to where their conversation might lead.

In hindsight, she knew the message she'd left him had been a strange one. And since Cal certainly knew her well enough to know when things were… _off_… she assumed that he'd already listened to it a few dozen times over, and had picked it apart from every angle until all of her 'tells' drove him crazy and left him with several unanswered questions.

Instead of starting with something normal, like "_Hi_" or "_Hello, Cal_," at the last second, Gillian decided to up the ante and address the pink elephant in the room before he had the chance to stumble over it.

"I know exactly what you're going to say, and the answer is _yes," _she greeted him. "I'm fine. Everything's fine. I guess I just… lost my head last night, okay? Go ahead and chalk it up to hormones, or too much wine, or… _whatever_… the point is, today is a new day. And _today_, I'm fine."

Gillian didn't really know what kind of reply to expect from him, but what she actually _got_ was laughter. It was a muffled, polite laugh that he was obviously trying to hide, lest he hurt her feelings. And even though she probably _should_ have ignored it completely… she didn't.

Trust him to take her on an emotional roller coaster, right out of the gate.

"Care to tell me why you're _laughing_ at me?" she said. "Because I warn you, Cal: I'm standing in the middle of my kitchen, armed with a few dozen freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, and I won't hesitate to drive over there and force feed them to you until you talk. That much sugar is bound to loosen your tongue, right?"

Through the receiver, she could practically hear him sit up straighter, and run his hand across his face in an effort to make himself behave, so that he could speak to her _without_ chuckling into the line. And bless him, it almost worked.

_Almost_.

Less than thirty seconds in, and it seemed that she'd already derailed whatever conversational plans he'd made.

"I've been threatened with many things in my life, love, but using cookies as an interrogation device? That's a first. _Although_…" he said, intentionally drawing out the last word, just to make her play along. Just to make her wonder where his unpredictable mind intended to take the comment.

_It worked._

Right on cue, Gillian rolled her eyes and tried to hide a smile, because she knew he would _hear_ it even if he couldn't _see_ it. She knew she was playing right into his hand, but she couldn't help herself. "Although… _what_?" she asked.

_Three… two… one…_

Cal cleared his throat and said – without a trace of humor in his voice – "S'nothing, Gill, really. But since you asked… If I'd known you'd start flinging the word 'yes' around so bloody quickly, I'd have probably called ages ago and asked some very different questions. Ones that could've saved us both a lot of time and sexual frustration, yeah?"

_And just like that… whatever anxiety she'd felt at the beginning of the call simply evaporated._

As soon as he said the words "sexual frustration," her face went hot and her palms began to sweat, and anxiety was replaced by a whole different set of emotional instability. Because even though she knew he was only teasing her, she couldn't help but hear a tiny thread of truth behind his words.

That, in a nutshell, was what made their relationship dangerous. The truth, the connection, the… _attraction_… between them. If left to its own devices, it often turned… fierce.

_Especially lately._

Logic and responsibility told her that she needed to listen to what Cal had said a few days earlier, and at least _try_ to keep her distance. Because the other option? The one that involved them erasing the line entirely, just because it kept getting in the way? _That _option was becoming more and more tempting with each passing day.

Each time she read affection and attraction from Cal and then returned home to a marriage nearly devoid of both… each time she caught herself making comparisons between the men in her life, with Alec all too often on the losing side… each time she drifted off into fitful sleep with the image of _Cal's_ face and _Cal's_ body behind her heavy lids… she couldn't help but wonder what might happen between them, in a different lifetime, with entirely different circumstances.

Gillian sighed again. She'd gotten so distracted by Cal's implication that it took her a few moments to realize he'd gone silent. And when she did – when she finally heard nothing but nerve-wracking silence coming through the line, she paled. "Cal?" she tried. "Are you still…"

"I'm here, love," he said apologetically. "Was just busy trying to remove my foot from my mouth, that's all. Hard to talk with it shoved in ankle deep."

Relief flooded her system as soon as he spoke, because he sounded completely normal. Self-depreciating humor designed to make her feel more relaxed – yep, that was her Cal.

"Oh please, it's _fine_," she told him. "And anyway, weren't you the one who told me to stop apologizing about everything?"

He gave a heavy sigh and when he spoke again, she easily heard the regret in his voice. "Not quite the same, Gill. Not at all."

"Yeah, well… I'm sure you were only teasing me," she tried to rationalize. Just to make him feel better, and because there was still too much silence coming from his end of the line. "I'm sure you didn't really mean anything by that whole 'sexual frustration' thing. Did you?"

Curse her vocal training, as soon as those last words – "_Did you?_" – hit the air, Gillian wanted to retract them. Because she knew they sounded… _off_. As if part of her wanted Cal to admit that he'd only been teasing, and the other part wanted him to admit… something else.

_Anything_ else, so long as it was truth. After all, the truth wasn't so bad.

Was it?

They'd been friends and partners for years. They knew each other inside and out; understood what made the other one happy, sad, angry, stressed, and everything in between. And if all that weren't enough, Gillian had long ago come to realize that Cal was, without question, the most intellectually stimulating man she'd ever met.

Add in the fact that she spent far more time with him than she did with Alec, and it was a miracle they hadn't crossed their self-imposed line long ago.

_But_…

Listing facts on paper did not make anything easier in practice. And in _practice_ – in real, everyday life – Gillian knew that _wanting_ Cal was about as close as she'd ever come to actually _having_ him.

"You said it twice," he suddenly offered. "In your message. When you told me that you missed me, you… said it twice."

Gillian closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath. And though she could've tried to rationalize her words, or to pass them off as less than what they were… she didn't. "I remember."

"Tell me what happened last night, love," Cal prompted. "I want to know why you needed to hear my voice so badly. And, why you feel the need to insist that everything is 'fine' right now, when in reality… we both know it isn't."

The only emotion Gillian heard in his voice was genuine concern. And while she wanted to tell him everything, good old fashioned embarrassment made her hesitate. She was angry with herself for allowing the boundaries between them to blur so quickly – for throwing herself into the middle of his personal life, without giving a second thought to how she'd actually manage to _explain_ her actions when they finally came to light.

After all, assuming Jacobs held up his end of the bargain, she had only a few days (_at most_) before hurricane Zoe would blow back into the picture again, looking for answers herself. The woman wasn't stupid. And she was bound to be suspicious enough to ask questions.

"Gillian? _Please_, talk to me. Whatever it is, love, I promise you – I can handle it. And just for the record, from here on out, that open arm policy of ours works via telephone, too."

Oh, he was being so sweet. So patient. But the words that were on the tip of her tongue went something like this: _"That rabid wolverine who is handling Zoe's divorce? Turns out he's a coke head who just so happens to be one of Alec's best friends. And so I thought – how convenient! I'll just blackmail him to help you win custody of Emily, and no one will be any the wiser. Didn't count on him wanting to attack me, though. That was a total surprise. The man is a lecherous bastard, Cal. And if you had any idea of what I'd seen on his face when he touched me – the disgusting determination that I can still see, every time I close my eyes – then you'd understand just exactly why I sounded 'like that.' It's because I was scared and lonely, and the only person in the entire world I wanted to be with… was you."_

No… a speech like that would be a game changer. And neither of them was ready for the consequences it would bring.

So instead, Gillian opted for a partial truth. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and hoped like hell that she was doing the right thing. That she wasn't about to make things even more delicate than they already were.

"I know this probably sounds crazy, but… have you ever been in a room full of people and still felt lonely? As if no one really saw you at all? That no one understood you were _real_? Well, that's how I felt last night. My house was full of people. They were all talking and laughing… being self-involved and totally _blind _to everything around them, and I just…I just needed _you_."

Right or wrong, one thing was clear: almost immediately, Gillian felt as though a weight had been lifted from her chest. It felt good to be honest with him again; to let her walls down, even if they hadn't crumbled completely.

The decision she'd made, about staying true to herself? Maybe all of this was just another step in the process.

"What about now, Gill? You say the word, and I'm on my way."

The sincerity in his voice caught her by surprise. It was warm and inviting; a direct contrast to everything else around her. She was surrounded by silentrooms that were filled with memories of a life she no longer recognized, and she knew that Cal was serious. That all it would take was a single word, and he'd be there with her. And instead of silence, her home would be filled with laughter, contentment, and companionship.

The offer was tempting. _Extremely_ tempting. But because there was no way she could stand face to face with him and hide what she'd actually done in that idiotic, yet completely heartfelt attempt to help keep him in Emily's life, she decided to buy herself a little bit more time.

Eventually, she'd tell him everything.

But she just wasn't ready yet.

_Funny how the tides had turned. Funny how she'd given him hell for pushing her away, time and time again, and there she sat… doing the exact same thing to him._

"I can hear you thinking, love," he said. "Would much prefer it if you'd use your words instead."

He was trying to shake her out of her silence and charm her into accepting his offer, and under different circumstances, it probably would've worked. But as it was, she opted for a deflection and hoped for both of their sakes that he wouldn't press the issue.

"I think we're both treading on dangerous ground," she said quiety.

And if she'd been able to stop right there, everything probably would've been fine. She and Cal would've swept everything under the rug and moved ahead as if it were just any other normal, boring weekend. They would've made small talk about the Group, made plans to grab lunch together, and gone on about their day without making any real waves at all.

But she didn't.

Not even close.

Instead, a sudden burst of nervous tension made her giggle, and without meaning to say anything flirtatious at all, she let loose with the biggest foot-in-mouth episode either of them had seen yet.

"You better be careful, Cal," she warned, "because if it's really _that _easy to get you all to myself, then I just might have to play that card more often."

_Shit, shit, shit_.

Trust her, in that moment, Gillian wanted to crawl into the nearest hole and _hide_. That comment had seemed _so_ much more innocent in her head, but now that it was out, she knew it sounded entirely sexual and way over the line.

In fact, what she'd said was so far _over_ the line, that she'd practically scrubbed it out entirely.

_And_ – because apparently, quitting while she was ahead worked as well for her as it did for Cal – Gillian realized that there was a very real part of her brain that _meant_ it _exactly_ the way it sounded.

Through the receiver, she heard Cal let out a deep, shaky breath. She could practically _feel_ him thinking; trying to decide what in the world he could possibly say to address what she'd just said, without making anything worse. Because really, what other outcome was there? No matter how she felt – no matter how much truth he'd heard, or even _thought_ he heard in her voice – in the end, their hands were totally tied.

"He's gone again, isn't he?"

The question threw her for a loop, because she honestly hadn't expected Cal to choose _that_ particular moment to turn the conversation toward Alec. She knew he was trying to make a point; trying to lead her to some kind of conclusion that he'd already reached. And even though she didn't really want to answer his question… she did it anyway. Because she trusted him.

"Since before sunrise, I think. But it's fine. _I'm fine, _Cal. So please, don't read more into this than what's really there."

Bringing Alec into the mix just made her feel twenty times worse, because he was _still_ her husband. _No, no_… not '_still_,' she corrected herself. That word made it sound temporary. Like she'd already made an escape plan in the back of her mind and was just waiting for a sign from Cal or, or the universe, or… _whatever_… just to put it in motion. Which wasn't the case at all.

Yes, she'd very nearly left Alec. And _yes_, she was overwhelmingly attracted to Cal. Sexually, physically, emotionally, and everything in between. _But_ – and in her mind, this was a key point – she did not want to be _that_ woman.

_That woman. _The one who habitually wanted what she couldn't have; who craved the grass on the other side of the fence, so to speak, because it looked greener than hers.

She didn't want Cal to feel like she was gravitating toward him just because Alec wasn't… _enough_… anymore. Jesus, the whole situation was riddled with tension and chaos, and it had disaster written all over it, and the sane thing to do – the sane choice to make – was to stop teasing herself with a 'grey' relationship, and focus on black and white realities that did not involve emotional adultery, or run the risk of damaging the most fulfilling relationship she'd ever had. She needed to keep her distance. And encourage him to do the same.

As if he'd quite literally read her mind, Cal chose that exact moment to speak up. "What I said before, about keeping my distance?" he offered. "I know it's the _smart_ thing to do, but that doesn't mean it's what I _want_ to do, yeah? Just… just keep that in mind. And remember that I'm here for you, Gill. Today, tomorrow… whenever you need me. Last night was a fluke, and it won't happen again. Day or night, the next time you call, trust me. I'll answer."

Gillian couldn't remember very many times during the course of their friendship with Cal when she'd been glad they were separated, but that moment was one of them. Because there was no way in the entire world she would've been able to stand in the same room with him and hide her reaction to what he'd just said. It was, without question, the sweetest thing she'd heard in… _years_.

"You know there's something else, don't you? That there's something else that I need to tell you."

As soon as she asked the question, Cal made a noise that was half chuckle and half relieved sigh. "Something tells me there are quite a few things, actually," he said.

And just like that, an unexpected mix of frustration and happiness began to well up within her. The depth of their connection never failed to catch her off guard from time to time. "Then I don't understand…" she tried.

"Understand _what_?"

"Why you aren't going all… "Lightman" on me right now. I mean, you wouldn't be this patient with other people, right? So… why me? Why are you giving me the breathing room, when you never give it to anyone else?"

Cal waited a few beats before answering. Long enough to put weight behind the words he was about to speak, so that she would know how much he meant them. "Because you _aren't_ everyone else," he answered. "You're better. And who knows? Maybe I am going all 'Lightman' on you right now, yeah? Maybe your perspective is just skewed. I'm still _me_. The scientist in me can't turn off what I _know_, or what I can _see_, but I do know how to be patient. It's just… see, the thing is… I've never trusted anyone else enough to show them this side of me before. No one else has ever seen it, Gill. Just you."


	20. Chapter 20

_**A/N: Just wanted to take a moment and comment on one of the reviews. For Thulie, the guilt Zoe showed in chapter 1 will come up again in one of the later chapters. :) Thanks for reading!**_

* * *

Though they were separated by one long hallway and a handful of empty rooms, Gillian had no problem hearing Zoe's voice as it ricocheted throughout the building. The word 'angry' was a massive understatement; the woman sounded positively murderous instead.

"I swear to God, Cal, do not even _try_ your bullshit with me today. Just this once, I need you to look me _right in the eye_ and tell me the honest truth. So I'm going to ask you one last time: what in _the hell_ did you do?"

That extra time she'd tried to buy herself?

Apparently, it was up.

By the time she pushed past the onlookers and rounded the corner through Cal's doorway, Gillian's jaw fell open in silent shock as she saw Zoe standing in the center of the room with her finger cocked right against his eye. She was threatening him. Warning him. And she was completely oblivious to the fact that a small crowd had gathered in the main corridor, eager to watch the drama that had already started to unfold in Lightman's office.

Part of her wanted to warn them away; to avoid any more fallout that than necessary. And the other part was too stunned to do much of anything, except stare at the scene in surprise. She had not expected William Jacobs to hold up his end of their arrangement so quickly, and in hindsight, Gillian realized that these were the consequences should have anticipated. These _specific_ consequences, with the shouting and swearing and accusations that were freely flying. All that cookie baking and housecleaning might have made her feel better temporarily – they might have served as a damned good distraction for the chaos in her head – but they didn't do a single thing to help improve the reality she was currently facing.

"I'm waiting," Zoe warned again. "And I'm not going anywhere until I get some answers."

To his credit, Cal had not said a single word. He just stood there gaping at her and looking like he was torn between laughing right in her face, and having her carted off to the nearest loony bin. He was positively _baffled_. Because this time, he was completely innocent.

Gillian, however… wasn't. Which left her with the difficult task of trying to stand there – in front of the man who just-so-happened to be the best lie detector in the entire country _and_ her best friend – and _look_ innocent, all while actually being as guilty as sin.

Finally finding his voice, Cal spoke to Zoe as calmly as possible. "For the life of me, love," he insisted, "I have no bloody clue what you're talking about, yeah? And much as you might like to blame me for whatever's happened, trust me: I did not "_do_" anything. Not this time."

Zoe scoffed, looking at Cal as though she wanted to jam her index finger right _into_ his eye. "_Oh please_, you are the last person I trust right now – especially about this. So do both of us a favor and don't waste your time lying to me, alright? It just makes you look foolish, and I'm not gullible enough to believe your crap, anyway."

_Thud, thud, thud._

Gillian's heartbeat was pounding in her ears so loudly that she was afraid Zoe and Cal would be able to hear it. She _knew_ she ought to speak up. She knew that it was cowardly to stand there and watch Cal take the blame for something _she_ had done, but each and every time she opened her mouth, the words simply refused to form. They were stuck, tangled in a ball in the back of her throat, and no amount of guilty conscience or internal debate was enough to shake them free.

At least not yet.

Her eyes were glued to Cal, who'd gotten so distracted by Zoe's latest display of insanity that he didn't seem to have spotted her yet, standing silent and wide-eyed and trying to mash herself right _into_ his doorframe, in hopes of using it as a makeshift shelter. As if a few inches of cheap wood could ever protect her from Zoe Landau's wrath. Oh, she felt like an idiot. And as stupid as she _now_ realized it sounded, she'd been so driven by her impulse to help Cal that she'd never even considered what the fallout would look like from this particular angle.

Then again_, _hindsight made the term 'idiot' seemed like an understatement. Because blackmail was blackmail (_well-intentioned or not_), and that alone was bad enough… but to make matters worse, she'd voluntarily thrown herself into a battle between husband and wife, mother and father, without _ever_ considering how she'd come through it unscathed.

Or – _heaven help her_ – if Cal would even appreciate it at all.

* * *

"Do you honestly expect me to stand here and believe you? Facts are facts, Cal. And _they_ do not lie. _They_ tell me that Bill Jacobs, a man who happens to be one of the most hard hitting, _unsympathetic_ divorce attorneys in all of DC, suddenly turned into a big softie who thinks I should change the entire framework of my suit, just because _his_ opinion on _our_ custody arrangement has – and I quote – "_changed_." And let me tell you, when the bastard called me first thing this morning and suggested it, I wanted to fire him. Nearly did, as a matter of fact. But then… then I decided that something about this whole mess suddenly feels a bit too… _convenient_. Wouldn't you agree?"

Every single thing about Zoe's vocal pattern, facial expression, and body language told Cal that she was being truthful. She wasn't intentionally overreacting. Not this time. Whatever Jacobs had said, or done, or _implied_ that had managed to turn Zoe's version of 'rational' completely on its ear and led her toward this latest display of craziness, Cal knew one thing for certain: she was absolutely convinced that _he_ was the one responsible for it.

Not to say that he was entirely surprised by the matter. He wasn't. He was used to being blamed for all sorts of things in their marriage (_and_ since their separation), and this was no different. Truth be told, he wasn't exactly… _disheartened_… by the knowledge that her weasel of a lawyer had gone through some kind of personality swap that could possibly sway the custody tides in his favor. He was downright smug about the entire thing. Which is why he couldn't manage to hide the self-satisfied little grin that pulled at the corners of his silent mouth – the grin that set Zoe's alarm bells flaring and left Gillian, bless her, hugging his doorframe in an effort just to hide from the whole scene.

In all fairness, Cal realized that he _did_ look guilty. He looked self-satisfied and arrogant – just like the bastard that he typically became in these types of situations. But this time, he really _was_ innocent. And the verylastthing he intended to do was apologize for something he hadn't even done.

So he schooled his smirk, looked her right in the eye, and said, "I'll agree that the whole thing does sound suspicious, but I swear to you – I had nothing to do with it."

Zoe practically growled, and when she did, Cal's attention turned away from her and shifted over to Gillian instead. _Gillian_. Silent, passive, wide-eyed Gillian, who was, for some reason, showing several signs of guilt.

_Interesting_.

"Give me one good reason why I should believe you," Zoe spat.

Her finger was still pointed right at his eye, still threatening to poke him if the mood happened to strike her, and although he probably should have been worried… he wasn't. He was too distracted by the picture that was starting to form in his head. The one that made no actual sense but kept pulling at his gut anyway, and insisting that Gillian – traditional 'good girl' and his biggest supporter – just might have a very colorful explanation as to why her face practically screamed "guilt."

"I don't have a good reason, yeah?" he finally answered. "Listen, I know you probably hate me. And I know you want to do whatever you can to rub a bit of salt in my wounds, and that I'm the last man you should _probably_ trust in a situation like this one, since I want custody of Emily just as badly as you do. But all I can offer is my word. Take it or leave it, love. The choice is yours."

Zoe growled again, making it clear that all of her blame still rested on his shoulders. "He has connections, Cal," she said harshly. "He has political connections with all sorts of men in Washington. That 'convenient' part I mentioned? Well, here it is: rumor has it that one of Jacobs' closest buddies just-so happens to be married to a certain psychologist that you and I both know very, very well. So you tell me. Is that all just one big coincidence or… not?"

With his ears tuned toward Gillian and his eyes trained on Zoe, Cal _heard_ – rather than _saw_ – the reaction that came from a few feet away. She squeaked. An actual, audible squeak. A tiny, insignificant little sound that resonated around the room and landed at his feet with a metaphoric bang.

_Bloody hell. _

Now it all made sense. The late night phone call, and her repeated insistence that everything was bloody "fine" when they'd both known she was lying. The hovering… the wide-eyed expression… the way she was still white knuckling his doorknob and debating whether or not she should interrupt their argument to come clean, or stand their silently and wait for the storm to pass.

And in that moment, he was torn between the instinct to throttle Gillian for getting herself involved in his mess, or…

_Or…_

Kiss her for doing something that was so epically, fantastically, _naïvely_ sweet.

She'd meddled. She'd apparently fallen victim to temporary insanity and decided to use Alec's connection with Jacobs to form some half-assed plan that would help him keep his Emily. Her behavior was crazy, and risky, and bloody irrational, and yet his heart longed to thank her even as his brain insisted on damage control.

_Yes, damage control._

Because Foster versus Landau was a battle he had no plans to actually watch, despite an instinct which suddenly told him that Gillian might – just maybe – have a habit of playing dirtier than he ever would have imagined.

"Earth to Lightman," Zoe suddenly snapped, sighing in his face and tapping her slender heel in a staccato beat near his toes. "Did you hear what I just said?"

_Tap, tap._

"'Course I did," he managed, faltering only for a split second before answering. He'd managed to wipe every last ounce of emotion from his face, save for the trademark 'smart ass sarcasm' that he intended to use for Gillian's benefit, which he proceeded to release at full throttle.

"Granted, the fact that Alec Foster is, apparently, "_besties_" with your lawyer is a rather surprising turn of events, but it _is_ Washington. This town has political connections running through its very blood. Quite frankly, it all sounds like one giant bloody coincidence to me."

If he had stopped right there – _right there_ – and let _those words_ be the end of the conversation, Zoe might have walked away. She might've taken her stiletto-heeled, floor-tapping, eye-poking fury and turned it onto someone else, rather than letting it fester on him. But, he was Cal. And quitting while he was ahead had never been his strong suit.

And so… he didn't.

Instead, he turned his body in Gillian's direction, rocked forward on the balls of his feet as if he didn't have a care in the world, and repeated part of his last comment. "It's just a coincidence. Right, Gill? Because surely there's no way to prove that either one of us – most especially you – had even the slightest hand in any of this. Is there?"

_Squeak, squeak._

Gillian did not answer and Zoe did not even _blink_, as Cal stood between them trying to fend off what would surely become – if he had the heartless mind to allow it – the biggest catfight the Lightman Group had ever seen. But because he would've never been able to do that to either woman, he waited only a few seconds before turning back to Zoe and saying – with as much false sincerity as his thickened accent would allow – "Show's over, love. Gillian and I are both innocent, and you, it seems, are pretty much screwed. So do me a favor and jot down Jacobs' personal number on your way out, yeah? Just so I can call and thank him for having such a big change of heart."

_Three… two… one…_

"You are such a _bastard_, Cal. Do you know that?" Zoe seethed.

Clearly, he'd taken things one step too far. And clearly, she didn't believe a single word he'd said. But… she realized he'd been right. That no matter what she _thought_ he or Gillian had done that made her power-hungry lawyer turn soft hearted, there simply was no proof.

_None at all._

In his periphery, he caught sight of Gillian as she breathed a sigh of relief and finally managed to take a single, tentative step into the room. Crisis averted.

* * *

"Now that we've established that I'm a bastard and Jacobs is a snake, enlighten me. Tell me, Zo… what exactly did he say that's got you standing here in the middle of my office and looking at me like _that_."

Zoe frowned as Gillian took another step forward, while he continued to stand between both women at the center of the storm. He was frustrated and unnerved, and what he really wanted to do was shove Zoe right out the door, take Gillian by the hand, and ask her what in God's name she'd done to make a man like William Jacobs have such an abrupt change of heart. But because he couldn't very well do _that_, and because he really _did_ want to hear Zoe's side of the story (preferably with her standing a bit farther away, well out of reach of his eye), he opted to bide his time.

If patience was truly a virtue, well then… he'd likely become the most virtuous man on the planet by the time the divorce was _actually_ finalized.

Frustrated and fatigued, Zoe sighed heavily. "He wants me to completely revamp the custody petition," she explained. "He said that since you and I aren't on hostile terms, _and_ because we live so close together _geographically_, that I should consider a much more… relaxed… arrangement. He says it will be – and I quote – 'better for everyone that way, especially Emily."'

_Emily_.

At the sound of his daughter's name, Cal felt relief flood his system in one overwhelming wave. Because despite all the chaos and drama that was brewing between them, at the root, none of it – _none of it_ – was about Zoe, or Gillian, or even Cal. Not really.

_Emily_ was the center. As long as she was happy – as long as her welfare maintained top priority in everyone's eyes - then he could handle almost anything. And to that end, whatever Gillian had done to help remind William Jacobs of that one, major point (_so long as it didn't involve her naked body pinned beneath the wrong man_), he was grateful.

"You won't get an argument from me on that one, love," he answered.

Never one to take the high road about anything – much less her disdain for a woman that she'd always seen as competition – Zoe muttered something under her breath that he didn't quite catch, then made a rude gesture in Gillian's direction. "How about from her, Cal? Use your science. Take one good, hard look at her face and tell me straight: Will I get an argument from her? Is she in this up to her eyeballs like I _think_ she is? Or not?"

It was a trick and he knew it. A tactic she'd used almost as long as he'd known her; she'd dangle something in front of his face – tempting him with logic and reason and the weight of his own weakness – and then snatch it away again before he could follow through. She was daring him to look at Gillian. To "see" what she only "suspected" was there. And if he did… if he dared study her face, and let his eyes sweep across the muscles that would almost instantly declare her guilt or innocence… and then gave Zoe any answer besides the one she wanted, then he'd be painted as the villain.

With Zoe Landau, every story was either black or white. Never grey. Never neutral. There was always a side to be chosen, and unless his choice matched hers, then it was always the wrong answer.

This time, he didn't want to take her bait.

"You are not in much of a position to give me orders anymore," he offered, keeping his eyes locked with Zoe's. "But even if you _were_, trust me: Gillian is the last person who would interfere with something like this. _Bloody hell_, what could she have possibly _done_, anyway? Sleep with Jacobs? Blackmail him? Take a bribe from me, pass it off to him, and then curl up on the sofa with a chocolate bar and romance novel, happy as a little clam? That's all just bollocks, and you know it."

_Silence_.

For the first few moments after Cal's impromptu little monologue, the room was filled with absolute silence. But then, just when he thought he might go absolutely bonkers from the anticipation of what might happen next, the stealthy staccato click of Zoe's tall heels snapped everything back to normal again. She took a handful of steps toward him, stopping only when their bodies were angled face to face, and the differences in their height inevitably forced him to look up at her. She was pacing herself; trying to manage the flood of emotions that he'd already seen below the surface, and control the words that were poised on the tip of her tongue.

Anger… frustration… betrayal… pain. He saw everything. What he _heard_, however, was something decidedly different.

It was vulnerability.

"Please don't try to placate me. Not now, and not here. Not when your _partner_ is standing there looking like she'd be quite pleased if the floor just opened up and swallowed her. Face it Cal, even _I_ can see that the guilt is written all over her face. I know you see it, too. And besides, it's obvious that she'd rather run right out that door than stand here and listen to anything I have to say."

Though he'd expected nothing less from her, the acidity behind Zoe's words somehow managed to catch him off-guard. He faltered, making the ill-timed decision to look at Gillian's eyes before he answered. And the guilt she'd mentioned? Oh, he saw it instantly. _Instantly_.

But behind it?

Behind the nervous, wide-eyed hesitation that kept her anchored in his office despite the fact that almost every single instinct in her body was obviously screaming at her to turn away?

He saw something else. Something new. Something so unbelievably strong that the weight of it made his breath catch in his throat, and his heart begin to pound like a jackhammer against his ribcage. It had a name. A label. It was one single, solitary syllable that would change everything, if only he let it. The same one, in fact, that he'd wrestled with just two days earlier, when he sat in his bed with his phone in his hands and his heart on his sleeve.

Trouble was, neither one of them was ready to face that particular truth yet.

And so he pushed the realization to the back of his mind, tried to ignore the protest in his gut that told him he was, without question, the world's biggest plonker for doing so, and turned his attention back to Zoe.

"'Fraid you just seem to have that effect on people, love. They're either sadistic bastards like I am – who stand tall and take your punishment just to prove that they can handle it, or they're like Foster, here. Too poised and polite to volley insults, so they look for an escape hatch instead. Fight or flight, that is. She just happens to be smart enough to choose 'flight.' Because let's face it. Gillian is too good to ever stoop to your level."

* * *

_**A/N: Just in case you were wondering, the scene I've set with Cal and Gillian in his office isn't even close to being finished yet. The next chapter picks up here, but Zoe isn't in it. :)**_


	21. Chapter 21

"'_Fraid you have that effect on people, love. They're either sadistic bastards like I am – who stand tall and take your punishment just to prove that they can handle it, or they're like Foster, here. Too poised and polite to volley insults, so they look for an escape hatch instead. Fight or flight, that is. She just happens to be smart enough to choose 'flight.' Because let's face it, love. She's too good to ever stoop to your level."_

* * *

In like a lion and out like a lamb.

What had begun as a hate filled rant, filled with shouting and accusations, ended with silence when Zoe finally turned to leave. She kept her head held high and her cold, steely gaze fixed straight in front of her – not daring to look at anyone or anything, especially Gillian.

When she was finally gone, Cal waited only a few moments, at best, before he used the intercom on his phone to reach the front desk. And during those few short, tension-filled minutes, his eyes never _once_ strayed from Gillian's face. He was intently focused, and when prompted by the Ana's voice on the other end of the line, he only managed to speak a few words.

"Is she gone?"

That was it. Just three words - three single syllables that made her heart begin to race and her palms begin to sweat, because the sheer number of possibilities they brought to the table were infinite. The inflection in his voice, the tilt of his head, and the tension in his frame… all of those things, in any combination, had the potential to mean something… different. Something new. They were subtle, minor changes that meant little to the rest of the world, but spoke volumes to Gillian.

He _was_ marginally angry, of course; she'd expected that. Those feelings surfaced each and every time she did something risky, because he was always afraid she might get hurt. But behind it – behind the few tendrils of anger that had already begun to fade – Gillian saw something that was so unbelievably strong and appealing that it nearly stole her breath.

_Uh-oh._

She squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to regain her composure, and when she opened them again, she noticed Cal's jaw muscles clenching rhythmically as he waited for a reply to his question. When it came ("_Yes, Doctor. Lightman. Ms. Landau just left_…"), the tension in his body did not dissipate. Instead, it grew.

His eyes were dark. Dangerous. And because she still hadn't managed to move, and she was too far away to see many of the finer details in his face, Gillian could not decide if the shift in the color of his pupils was prompted by the anger that she'd already seen, or by something entirely… different.

She was a vocal expert; trained to recognize inflection, speech pattern, and sentence structure. She knew how to put _those clues_ together to form an opinion about a person's emotional response. About their feelings. But Cal gave her nothing to work with. Aside from his single question about Zoe's departure, he'd gone silent – standing stock still behind his desk and studying her features with wide, pensive eyes.

They were trying to read each other. That much was obvious. They were trying to find their footing; to navigate terrain that had been left shaky and soiled in Zoe's tumultuous wake. Gillian's impulse told her that Cal was waiting for her to make the first move. To set the pace. To decide if she wanted to opt for radical honesty and explain what she'd done and how she'd done it, or… rely on the theory of plausible deniability to sweep everything under the rug.

"_It's just a coincidence. Right, Gill? Because surely there's no way to prove that either one of us – most especially you – had even the slightest hand in any of this. Is there?"_

Those were the words that echoed through her mind as she watched Cal lift his hands from the phone and drop them to his sides. She heard the inflection again in her memory, just as it sounded a few moments earlier. She remembered the control in his voice… remembered the way that he'd looked at her. The way he'd trusted her. And when each of those factors inevitably combined, she just… snapped. In that moment, her decision was made.

She owed him the truth. About Jacobs… about Alec… about everything.

* * *

"Listen, Cal… I can explain."

Gillian's voice was uncharacteristically quiet, as if the volume of her own words somehow gave them power she didn't want to comprehend. She was timid and bashful; self-conscious, and shy, and so bloody _beautiful_ that he had no idea _at all_ how he managed to simply stand there and watch her for as long as he had.

And trust him, that was a _literal_ question in his mind - not a string of clichéd words, or meaningless phrases. Because he truly didn't know how he managed to stand _there_ – behind the desk, beside the phone, and away from her – for even so much as a second, let alone a few full minutes, when all he wanted to do… was hold her.

_Jesus, he did not understand what was happening. Not at all. _

He wasn't a blind man, though, and he certainly wasn't stupid. He'd seen the changes. Remembered the way he pictured her face in his mind when he'd poured himself into bed and allowed himself to wonder if he'd ever manage to touch her again without automatically craving more. He remembered the way he'd felt two mornings earlier, when the dumbfounded revelation that he was beginning to fall in love with her finally made itself known.

And even then, as scared as he'd been of facing that truth... he still wanted more.

He remembered how it had felt to hold her in that restaurant, weeks ago; how reassuring it felt to know that _his_ words made her smile. That _his_ presence brought her comfort. And since then, he'd pictured her body against his, more times than he could even count, wrapped in an embrace that turned into a kiss that always, _always_ turned into…

_More_.

So while he knew exactly what the feelings _were_ – and what they had the potential to _become_ – the part that he could _not_ understand was how in bloody hell they'd managed to develop so quickly. It felt as though someone had set them on fast forward; that some higher power had taken "The Line" they'd naively tried to respect, snatched it up, and dangled it over their heads, just to taunt them.

Little more than one month ago they'd been wrapped on Gillian's sofa, bound by embarrassment and friendship and so many secrets. And now, as his darkened eyes roamed her features – from her throat to her lips, to the slope of her shoulders and the flush of her chest – Cal knew only one truth.

That "Line" dangling above their heads?

Gillian had already crossed it. _She'd_ made the first move; she'd taken the first step.

And now_ he_ was ready to make the second one.

* * *

"_Listen, Cal… I can explain."_

He didn't respond right away. He let her wait in silence, as slow, deliberate movements brought him ever closer to the spot where she stood, right in the center of the room. His eyes roamed her body, and his fists remained clenched at his sides. And when his gaze dropped from her throat, to her shoulders, then finally to her cleavage, she felt tiny pinpricks of heat begin to form at the base of her spine and flow upward, until they traveled throughout every last inch of her entire body.

Her reaction to him was… _primal_.

Under the heat of his stare, Gillian swallowed. She felt the need to fill the silence that had fallen between them. To convince herself everything was still perfectly normal. That _she_ was fine, and _he_ was fine, and _they_ were fine… all while her mind's eye began to conjure up a dozen different images of his lean, strong body surging against hers and capturing her in an embrace, that turned into a kiss, that turned – _blissfully_ – into more.

_So much more._

She didn't know which one of them had actually taken the steps, but suddenly he was right there. Inches, rather than feet, away from her. Too close for things to be considered conversational, and too far away for them to become sexual. Push and pull… truth or denial… the fact was, she wanted him to come closer, even as one tiny fragment of her conscience tried to argue that she was treading on very dangerous ground.

She wasn't blind, though, and she wasn't stupid. She'd seen the changes; remembered how she felt when he held her in that restaurant. How his words had made her smile, and his presence had brought her peace. She remembered picturing his face as her anchor during that horrible situation with Jacobs; knew that she'd drawn strength from his photograph even when he couldn't be there with her in flesh and blood. And of course, she remembered reaching out to him, just to hear his voice, when the demons in her own imagination wouldn't allow her to find comfort alone.

It was obvious that her feelings for him had been changing for weeks, now. That they had already begun to grow past the boundaries designed to contain them, and that she'd soon have to make a choice between letting them flourish, or… try to deny what was almost certainly inevitable.

In her fantasies – which had become more and more vibrant as time progressed – she often pictured his body against hers, wrapped in an embrace that turned into a kiss that always, _always_ turned into…

_More_.

And while she knew exactly what her feelings had the potential to _become_, the part that she could _not_ understand was how they'd managed to develop so quickly. It felt as though someone had set their relationship on fast forward; that some higher power had taken "The Line" she'd invented – the one they'd both naively tried to respect – and snatched it up to dangle over their heads, just to torment them. Just to make a point that it was wrong to want anything more than what they already _had_.

And yes, Gillian knew that it _was_ wrong. She knew that she was playing with fire, and risking what was left of her marriage in the process. Trouble was, it was becoming harder and harder to care about the consequences.

She tried to be patient. Tried to stand there and let him decide what happened next. But her resolve crumbled after less than a minute, and she reached for him with hands that trembled a little bit more than she would've liked. "I know I overstepped the line," she said lamely, just because there was still too much silence between them. "And I know that I went so far _past_ the damn thing that I practically erased it completely, but I just… I just wanted to…"

For whatever reason, Cal chose that particular moment to interrupt her explanation and offer two short, strained words that were filled with indecipherable emotion. With his fists still clenched and his mouth set in a firm line, he shifted even closer toward her. "Gillian, _please_…"

Because her heartbeat was thudding so loudly and every last nerve ending in her body feeling as though it had suddenly begun to fray, Gillian misread what he was trying to say. She was truly worried that what she read on his face was only anger, complete with blackened eyes and labored breathing. If it had been anyone else standing in front of her, she might've felt uncomfortable. But it was Cal, and she felt perfectly safe. And so when his white-knuckled grip caught her attention _and_ her imagination, she couldn't help but picture that very same hand wrapped around her waist, or her hip, or her wrists, in a touch that was designed to bring pleasure, rather than pain.

_Passion, rather than anger._

In that moment, all she wanted to do was soothe him. To justify her actions and make him understand that she'd never meant to cause a problem for anyone, least of all him. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined herself with enough nerve to try and blackmail anyone, but she'd done it for him with barely even a _shred_ of hesitation. And once the entirety of that truth was revealed, she had no idea how he'd react.

He'd either eat her alive (so to speak) for daring to be so stupid, or… _not_.

Gillian sighed. She felt like a teenager – hormonal and needy and overly dramatic. After all, this was Cal – the man she trusted more than anyone else in the entire world. _Yes_, he was angry, but _no_, she wasn't afraid of him. She knew that he'd never physically harm her. And even if she _had_ been wrong… even if it _was_ arousal she still saw on his face… it wasn't like he was going to _do_ anything about it.

_Right?_

It wasn't like he was going to press her against the wall, or the door, or the bookcase and ravage her with hands and mouth until the only thing either one of them understood was that they needed to invest in soundproof walls.

_Was it?_

A sudden narrowing in Cal's eyes told Gillian that he'd probably just seen the path her thoughts had taken, and embarrassment snapped her back to reality in an instant. She needed to calm down. Take a few deep breaths, focus, and just _talk to him_.

And so she gave a frustrated sigh, willing her fingers to hold steady as she reached out for him again. "Believe me, Cal, I never meant to make anything worse. I swear to you, I only wanted to help."

A quick flex of his bicep caught her attention, and she couldn't help but notice the way the muscles pulled against his skin, shifting between ink and bone in a pattern she couldn't help but study. It did absolutely nothing to help her straying thoughts, or calm her heartbeat, or remind her that all she could do _to_ him – all she could do _with_ him – was talk.

_Just talk._

She was too distracted to notice when he deliberately repeated the same motion with the other arm. She didn't realize that he was testing her; teasing her. And she certainly didn't hear the gruff, guttural sound that came out of his mouth when he opened it to speak again. All she heard was the repetitious sound of her own name.

"Gillian..."

It was a warning. _A plea_. And when she finally had sense enough to look at him – to _really_ look at him, into his eyes, and past the assumptions she'd made that had oh-so stupidly tried to convince her he was angry – she shivered. Because what she saw in that moment wasn't anything even _close_ to anger.

And then her fingers were trembling even more, though she wouldn't have imagined it possible. Her heartbeat took off like a rocket, and all the swirling thoughts in her brain streamlined into a single, sexual demand that made her resolve begin to crumble and her moral compass begin to forget that what she wanted – _desperately wanted_ – was absolutely, unconditionally _wrong_.

Her mind knew it was wrong to want him so badly, but her body?

Her body didn't care. It wanted to forget all about marriage, divorce, blackmail, friendship, and risk – _all of it_ – and just _feel_.

Through gritted teeth, Cal only managed to speak three short words, but they were enough make the burgeoning sexual tension in the room become thick and palpable and oh-so appetizing.

"_Lock. The. Door."_

* * *

_**A/N: Thanks for reading! Next chapter coming soon - I promise. ;)**_


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: Just a quick disclaimer, even though I'm sure you all saw it coming... I'm about to earn the T rating for something besides language and innuendo with this chapter (and many other upcoming ones, too). Also, my mind is absolutely blown by all the feedback. I appreciate it so very much, and will pm each of you to thank you personally. And now... on with the story!**

* * *

_Her mind knew it was wrong to want him so badly, but her body?_

_Her body didn't care. It wanted to forget all about marriage, divorce, blackmail, friendship, and risk – all of it – and just _feel_. _

_Through gritted teeth, Cal only managed to speak three short words, but they were enough make the burgeoning sexual tension in the room become thick and palpable and oh-so appetizing. _

"Lock. The. Door."

* * *

As Gillian turned away from him to fumble with the knob, there was a single, fleeting moment when Cal was hit with an attack of conscience. It was just an instant, when a little voice in the back of his mind tried to whisper that he really ought to stop right then, before anything irreversible happened between them.

_But_…

He really, _really_ wanted to ignore it. Reason, logic, morality… right and wrong and everything in between. In that moment, none of those things mattered because all he saw was Gillian, and all he wanted to do… was _feel_.

His eyes were drawn down the length of her spine and toward the flare of her perfectly proportioned hips… then lower, to the toned muscles in her legs that were delicately defined by the height of her tall, black heels. By the time they'd tracked upward again, she'd turned so that they were standing face to face, and _every single ounce_ of self-control in his body reverberated with the realization that the arousal written all over her features was a perfect match for his.

That's when he knew. It didn't matter one bloody bit whether or not he _could _have stopped. Truth was, he wasn't going to. And neither, it seemed, was Gillian.

Cal knew that there were a thousand and one better ways to have a conversation, but he couldn't be bothered with any of them. He had questions… she had answers… and raw, unfiltered need drove him forward, until his right hand landed against her neck and he gripped it with a steady palm. That single touch seemed to trigger something within her, and so he _felt_ rather than _heard_ her sharp intake of breath as soon as his fingers claimed her skin.

_His Gillian._

It felt insane to continue with pretense. To actually try and talk to her about what had happened with Jacobs – what in bloody hell she'd actually _done_, under the misguided and unexpectedly lovely impulse of helping him. But curiosity warred with ever-intensifying arousal, until they tangled together in a muddled, oppressive knot in his gut and both emotions demanded attention at the same time.

And so with one hand still on her neck and every single spare _ounce_ of blood in his body already on a fast track toward his pelvis, Cal pulled her closer. Until she was close enough to make the fabric of her dress rustle against the buttons of his shirt. Close enough that her warm breath mingled with his and painted the air between them with both consequence and desire. Close enough that he couldn't have formed words even if his life depended on it, and all he could do… _all he could do_… was wait for her to read the unspoken questions in his eyes.

He wanted to know why she'd gotten involved, and – most importantly – just how far she'd gone to keep Jacobs on such a tight leash. If it really was blackmail (_and since that was the least horrible of all the options swirling through his brain, he definitely hoped it was_), then what in bloody hell was behind it? What could Gillian – or her boring, type A, plonker of a husband – _possibly_ have on the guy that would make him suddenly have such a massive change of heart?

Things being what they were, however, Cal's body forced him to bypass actual words and communicate with her through touch instead. His hands wanted to be everywhere at once; to stroke, and to tease, and to claim. He wanted all of her – desperately – and even more than the physical need, he wanted her to understand how he _felt_. That for him, being with her wasn't just about sex at all.

He wanted to show her that their connection went _deeper_ – beyond any place he'd ever let himself fall before – and that he trusted her with everything.

Including his heart.

Gillian gasped lightly when his thumb began to stroke her jaw, and the movement of her ribcage pressed her breasts into his chest in the most wickedly tempting way. It wasn't deliberate, though, and as soon as she realized what had happened – as soon as she felt the solid plane of his torso pressing back against her – she blushed. _She_ blushed and _he_ groaned, and _that_ was the moment when everything began to move in fast forward.

She was in his arms and against his body. They were as close as it was possible to get without him actually being inside of her, and it felt as though everything between them began to spin out of control. It was all perfect, and passionate, and oh-so-_dangerous_, and he couldn't even remember the last time he'd been so aroused.

His right hand shifted to her throat, fluttering gentle, sweeping passes up the length of it, just to feel the strum of her pulse beneath the surface. And then her palms landed on his chest, tracing the top button of his shirt with steady fingers while his left hand warmed her hip – eager to grip the flesh that he had, until now, only ever touched accidentally.

"I did it because I can't stand to see you get hurt," Gillian breathed. As if things were really that simple, and he should've known the answer all along. "And since there was something I could do that might stop it this time – something I could do to _help _you…I did."

_That took care of the 'why.' All that was left was the 'how.'_

She must've seen the twitch in his brows and the tension in his jaw that bloomed as soon as the word 'how' entered his thoughts. He wanted to know _how_ she'd managed to manipulate Jacobs… how many lines she'd crossed in the process… how he'd ever be able to function sanely again if _that_ man had taken advantage of her in _that way_. He'd bloody kill the bastard.

Always the voice of reason, she interrupted his thoughts with gentle, reassuring words. "It didn't get quite that far," she said. "And just so we're clear… I would never have allowed it to get that far, either."

He believed her, of course. But she'd averted her eyes for a second, and her shoulders had gone tense, and for reasons that Cal could not name _(most likely her use of the word '_quite') his protective instincts kicked in. She was trying to avoid the obvious question, but he couldn't help but ask it anyway.

"Did he touch you, Gillian?" he said softly, allowing his ever-tightening grip on her body to convey just how badly he wanted her to answer him with a '_no_.'

But she didn't.

In fact, for the first several seconds she didn't answer _verbally_ at all. The look on her face, though, spoke volumes. It told him that while Jacobs had certainly _intended_ to take advantage of her, something had stopped him. And when she finally looked up at him from beneath heavy lashes and grasped fistfuls of his shirt in her hands, all she actually _said_ was, "He tried."

Trust him, the mere sound of those words that made every single hair on the back of his neck stand straight on end. And suddenly what she'd told him during that weekend phone call – when she threatened to force-feed him cookies just to get him to be honest with her – suddenly made a lot more sense.

"_My house was full of people," _she'd said_. "They were all… being self-involved and totally _blind_ to everything around them, and I just… I just needed _you_."_

Gillian paused then, watching his expression shift as the few pieces she'd shared with him began to click into place, one by one. And then she leaned in just a fraction closer, covering his heart with her hand as she moved, and said, "He wanted to, and he tried… but in the end, no. _No_, Cal. He didn't. I promise. Let's just say that I have a certain amount of leverage as far as that man is concerned."

Right away, Cal knew she was hiding something; he knew what she'd told him was only a _partial_ truth. And under any other circumstances, he would've pressed the issue and wound up asking her a dozen different questions until he read the answers right from her face.

_But…_

Her hands had gone from gripping fistfuls of his shirt to fumbling with the buttons instead. And as soon as he felt her fingers push the first one through its hole and then drop lower, to work on the second one, Cal decided that his priorities had changed and he didn't much care about whatever she wasn't telling him.

No_, _as of that particular second, the only details he wanted to sort were the ones that involved _his_ hands and mouth on _her_ body, as they sought out each and every place that made her whimper, or moan, or speak his name in breathless pleasure.

Before his limbs could catch up to reality, Gillian looked up at him with an expression that actually made him _twitch_, and said, "I'd do almost anything in this world for you, Cal, but trust me – having sex with that man would never be one of them. And just so we are crystal clear… I don't think there's any amount of alcohol in the entire _world_ that would ever be able to change my mind."

By then, her voice had softened even further, so that he could barely hear the words she spoke or feel the ghost of her warm breath against his lips, and Cal knew that they'd reached the tipping point. He knew whatever she said in response to his next question would either push them over the line entirely… or pull them back from the edge of it with a harsh, rough tug.

He wanted to tell her that they could still stop; that as badly as he wanted her, if she had any doubts at all – _at all_ – he'd understand. The words that actually came out of his mouth, though, were much less coherent.

With a groan, he leaned further into her touch and said, "What about now, love?"

Then he paused to let the words sink in and make it very bloody clear that they couldn't blame the haze of inebriation for what was obviously about to happen between them. "We're both perfectly sober now, yeah?"

Arousal had caused his accent to thicken to the point of absurdity, but she didn't seem to care. If anything, his comments only drove her that much higher… made her fingers even more determined… made the flush on her neck deepen and flare downward, until he lost sight of it beneath the soft fabric of her dress.

Her hand dropped to his third button, then his fourth, and she looked up at him with the barest hint of a smile. "It's you and me, Cal. It's _you_ and _me_. Somehow I think that mixing alcohol with… _us_… would only dull the experience."

And trust him, he couldn't have answered her if his life depended on it, because every thought in his brain _died_ as soon as he felt her fingers push that fourth tiny button through its hole and drop to the final one, just above his belt. Every instinct, every breath, every ounce of energy in his entire body streamlined into one overwhelming, sexual _need_.

Each time he'd imagined it, Cal had always seen himself as the aggressor; the one who convinced her to let her walls down and take a chance. Take a risk. With him.

But this? Standing there with his hands on her hips as she parted the fabric of his shirt and began to push it _off_ his shoulders? It was even better than anything he'd ever imagined. Because they'd come to this together. _Together_.

Did a part of him feel like an absolute bastard because the gold band on her fourth finger should have told him to stop? That she was… taken? That he was a royal idiot for risking his heart, and his business, and his ego for a chance to be with her when, technically, her heart was supposed to belong to someone else and his was still taking a pummeling from a woman who was not-quite-yet his ex?

_Absolutely._

Trouble was, he didn't care about any of those things anymore. Because it was _Gillian_, and it felt absolutely perfect, and, well… she'd already gotten him half naked, and he really, _really_ wanted to take it further. He wanted to see _her_ dress and _his_ pants drop into a wrinkled pile atop the shirt she'd already thrown into the corner.

Need warred with morality, both in his brain and in his heart, but in the end…

_Need won._

* * *

She hadn't planned on any of this. Honestly, she hadn't. But now that they were standing there… now that she'd shoved his shirt _off_ his shoulders, and her steady fingers eagerly roamed the lean expanse of his chest… Gillian didn't have a single regret.

Everything between them felt spontaneous, and risky, and absolutely exhilarating. They were standing in the middle of his office, in the middle of the day, and even though the circumstances screamed at her that she needed to stop… she didn't. She felt alive, and whole, and – as embarrassingly clichéd though she knew it sounded – _loved_, in a way she hadn't known in years.

_Years_.

She easily saw the shift in his eyes. The one that told her, with one hundred percent certainty, that he had absolutely no intentions of backing down, or saying a single word that would derail what was obviously about to happen. And truth be told, she'd imagined it all before. What it would feel like to touch him, to taste him, to let fantasy merge with reality and allow them both the freedom to discover happiness together. To learn what they'd be like in _that way_… how they'd fit… how they'd _feel_, once the boundaries that separated them in daylight were finally allowed to fall.

Each and every time she'd imagined it, she'd always seen Cal as the aggressor. As the one who convinced her to let her walls down and take a risk. But this? Standing there with _her_ hands on his bare chest, and _his_ hands gripping her hips as he pulled her ever closer, until she could almost taste the ghost of his kiss? It was even better than he'd ever imagined, because they'd come to this together.

_Together_.

Did a part of her feel like an absolute traitor because the gold band on her fourth finger should have told her to stop? That she was already… taken? That she was cruel and heartless for risking his happiness, and their business, when, _technically_, her heart was already supposed to belong to someone else?

_Absolutely._

But she didn't care about any of those things anymore. Because it was _Cal_, and it felt absolutely perfect, and, well… she'd already gotten him half naked, and she really, _really_ wanted to take it further. She wanted to see _his_ pants and _her_ dress tossed into a pile near the shirt she'd already removed.

Need warred with morality, both in her mind and in her heart, but in the end…

_Need won._

* * *

Gillian couldn't tell which one of them moved first. Which one of them broke the tension by pressing just a fraction of an inch further, until their mouths finally met in a collision of blissful, overwhelming _relief_ that made her entire body tremble against his. Cal's hands, just as his lips, were both possessive and gentle, and he was able to take her from the shallow waters of arousal to the depths of unimaginable desire in mere seconds.

_Seconds_.

She'd never known anything like it before.

At heart, she was a romantic. A fan of romance novels and happy endings… of poetry and candlelight, and all things 'love.' And yet everything she'd ever imagined between them, every single thing she _fantasized _that it would be, paled in comparison to what it actually _was_. To what _he_ actually was.

And to the way he made her feel.

She couldn't get enough of him. Of the way his body felt beneath her hands… of the way his lips and tongue glided oh-so expertly against hers… of the way he tasted, and sounded, and smelled. He knew exactly how to move. How to claim. How to give her exactly what she wanted, all while making her crave even more.

_More_.

It was… _brilliant_.

She didn't even realize they were moving until her hip bumped the doorway that led from his main office into his private library. And she barely heard the sound of the latch as he closed the interior door and locked it, so that they had even more privacy and many more… options. She felt out of control. Wild and uninhibited, and wholly, completely exhilarated by the flood emotions that resonated within her.

At some point during their short walk, Cal had turned them so that her back was against the wall while he stood in front of her with his body fitted between her thighs. And at a different point, it became clear that neither one of them was patient enough to bother with settling onto the sofa, or the ladder, or even the soft rug beneath their feet. They were enthusiastic and passionate, and all of it combined together into what had already become, quite frankly, the hottest experience she'd ever had _in her life_.

The fact that she was still completely clothed and he'd done little more than _kiss_ her left her with a steady, reverberating strum of arousal at the thought of what was still to come.

"My Gillian," he breathed, taking a single second to shift his lips away from hers and move them down her throat. A string of soft, needy kisses blazed a trail over the entire length as she panted in his arms, mindless of everything except his warm skin beneath her fingers and the way his muscles reacted to her touch. He was kissing her as if he never wanted to stop, and when she finally dropped her hands to his belt buckle, she couldn't help but smile as a tiny shockwave ran throughout his frame.

_She_ smiled and _he_ groaned, and just as she began to slide the material through the loops... just as one of his hands cupped her breast and the other made a beeline for her zipper and quickly pulled it halfway down… everything changed.

Call it clumsiness or simply a cruel twist of fate, but somehow _her_ left hand accidentally scraped his stomach, just as _his_ left hand snagged a loose thread near the clasp of her bra. Two separate gold wedding bands pressed against skin and circumstance in a collision that was entirely accidental and absurdly improbable, and just like that… almost as quickly as it had begun… everything between them began to slow down.

Kisses grew softer. Caresses grew delicate. Desperate passion became gentle awakening, and as the seconds ticked by – with _her_ hands frozen in place around his loosened belt, and _his_ caught between the side of her lace-clad breasts and the top of her bare ribcage – they began to realize that what had _begun_ to happen between them simply couldn't.

Not yet.

* * *

_**Just a note in closing; I wrestled with the decision of how to handle this for several days and ultimately decided that it wasn't quite their time to consummate anything. Yet. Stay tuned though, because I'm not planning to turn the heat all the way back down, either. :)**_


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: A million thank-you's for the feedback and support and overwhelmingly lovely response for this story. You all made my heart happy! (Also to Roadrunnerz, I was still editing this chapter when I read your review, and so I included a few bits that were inspired by what you said. Thanks a bunch for that... much appreciated!)**

**And now... on with the story. :)**

* * *

_Kisses grew softer. Caresses grew delicate. Desperate passion became gentle awakening, and as the seconds ticked by – with _her_ hands frozen in place around his loosened belt, and _his_ caught between the side of her lace-clad breasts and the top of her bare ribcage – they began to realize that what had _begun_ to happen between them simply couldn't._

_Not yet._

* * *

Cal wasn't sure how long they stood there, with his arms wrapped around her in a protective embrace and the bare skin of his chest pressed solidly into her mostly-naked torso. He felt Gillian's hands stroke over each of his tattoos, tracing the patterns with delicate fingertips and a fleeting touch that somehow gave more… finality… to the moment than he would've preferred to feel.

He wanted to prolong the inevitable; to keep her as 'his' for just a little while longer.

The way she felt in his arms… the touch of her soft, silky hair against his skin… the way she smelled, and tasted, and sounded. He wanted to memorize all of it – every last detail. Wanted to burn it all into his mind so that he could savor everything again, long after they parted. And it was right around the time that he was replaying the image of his hand cupping her breast that he realized the only thing keeping her dress anchored to her body _at all_ was the press of his palm against the curve of her spine. To the north, her beautifully soft skin met and merged with his, but to the south, hidden pleasures awaited.

And trust him, he really, _really_ wanted to lift his hand.

He wanted to allow the loosened garment to pool at her feet; to let his eyes feast on the curves of her body, unrestrained by clothing and consequence, until passion pulled them right back to where they'd been mere moments earlier.

_But… he didn't._

"Hell of a time for me to grow a conscience, yeah?" he sighed as he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "First time for everything, I suppose."

He was conflicted, because his _brain _knew they'd done the right thing by stopping, but his body didn't care. It wanted to rebel; it was still revved and ready, and shifting gears that quickly was - all jokes aside - painful.

Gillian looked up at him with an expression that caused his heart rate to surge again. "Would've preferred a different first time experience myself," she quipped. "But I think that for _now_..."

Her voice faded off as soon as she over-emphasized the word now, and Cal wanted to breathe a sigh of relief at the knowledge that they were both on the same page. "Right, love," he nodded. "Much as I bloody hate to admit it, it's probably for the best if we just..."

"... wait."

It was the word neither one of them wanted to say, much less actually follow through with. And now that she'd said it, he felt... uneasy. As if they were standing on a tower of cards that could crumble with one wrong move. There were a thousand different things he wanted to tell her, but when he finally opened his mouth to speak again, the words he actually said took them both by surprise. "I just don't want to lose you, Gill."

That single sentence held the weight of one hundred, and he felt Gillian's body pull tighter against his as the last syllable tapered away. "I promise, Cal," she breathed. "You won't."

There was a question in his mind; one he'd wanted to ask her for days, but hadn't yet found the courage to verbalize. And for whatever reason – whether prompted by fear, or self-doubt, or just plain distraction – when he pulled back enough for his eyes to meet hers… it was right there, on the tip of his tongue.

"Do you love him, Gill?"

The look on her face made his heart clench painfully in his chest. And even though logic told him that there were only two possible answers she could've given – that it would either be a _yes_, or a _no_ – he knew almost instantly that neither of them was correct. She _did_, but then again… she _didn't_.

And he had no bloody clue where that particular truth left them.

"Truth?" she said sadly. She was brushing the pad of her thumb across the band on his arm, over and over again, until the feel of it drove him to actually look down at her hand. By the time he glanced up again, her expression had hardened ever-so slightly. And just like that, it hit him.

Maybe she didn't have a clue, either.

Cal's hand slid to the small of her back and he pulled her towards him again – closing the distance he'd created, so that their hips fell back in line and he could still feel the heat of her body radiate onto his. "Always truth," he answered.

"As awful as it sounds, the _truth_ is… I do love him, but I'm not… I'm not in love with him. Not anymore. Everything is so different now, you know? It's all... changed. Up is down, left is right, and everything in my head feels like it's in a constant tug of war with everything in my heart. And as far as my marriage is concerned, I had one foot out the door weeks ago. You know that. But then… _then_ Alec made a promise that I desperately wanted him to keep, and so I just… stayed. God, that's pathetic, isn't it? I tried to leave him, but it's like you said: it didn't '_take_.'"

_Bloody hell._

All of that would've been so much easier to hear if he wasn't still holding her. If his hands didn't feel so comfortable settled low on her waist, or curled into the small of her back, or pressed against the gentle slope of her shoulders. It would've been so much easier to hear if he wasn't… in love with her.

_Love_.

Without warning, that word began to resonate in his brain and in his heart. And as soon as Cal realized what was happening – that he'd actually admitted the depth of his feelings to himself, rather than try to downplay them any longer – his throat went dry. Something bordering on panic ran through his chest, and he had to make a conscious effort to hold himself still, lest Gillian figure out what was really going on. If ever there was a moment he wished he could turn the science 'off,' that was it.

Reality, however, left him with only one real option.

He shifted the hand that was still holding up her dress and slowly tugged the zipper north, as he tangled the other one in the soft strands of hair that curled around her face. Everything about his body, his expression, and his touch was silently screaming the truth at her; telling her that he had no regrets about what they'd done. _None at all_.

He only hoped she was able to hear it.

"This thing with Jacobs," he said tentatively. "Does it have something to do with the whole upside down, inside out bit you mentioned? Whatever leverage you've got on that wanker, Gill… does it somehow involve Alec too? Because what I'm seeing _here_…"

Cal paused to stroke the back of his hand along her cheekbone for emphasis – to illustrate which muscles he'd noticed specifically. But her eyes fluttered closed as soon as his skin touched hers, and she bloody _sighed_ so softly that it threw his concentration entirely off track. He stumbled and stuttered as he wrestled with the decision of either pulling her _against_ his pelvis so she could feel how badly he still wanted her… or gripping her hips hard enough to hold her in place _away_ from his body, so she wouldn't understand.

"What I'm seeing _here_," he repeated gently, "and what I'm hearing in your voice? Both of those things tell me that it does involve him. They tell me that you're so busy trying to protect all of us – me, Emily, Alec, and our business – that you've lost sight of what's best for _you_. You've lost sight of the things that _you_ want, love. So tell me. Please. What do you _want_?"

Ever so slightly, Gillian shook her head. She was still tracing her fingers across his bare skin and as she began to answer the question, her soft touch shifted into a gripping curl. "I just want to be happy," she said.

And just like that, as if that one obvious truth had been the trigger, she began to talk. _Really_ talk. About Alec… about their marriage… about the child she'd lost, and the distant dream of motherhood that was slipping farther and farther away. Ten minutes later, she finally gave him something to work with.

"Things with Alec feel so… different… that it's like we've become strangers in these last few months," she offered. "And the man he is _now_ is so far removed from the man he _was_, that I'm not sure I know how to see the real person that's hiding in there, beneath all the self-destruction."

_Self-destruction_.

Apparently, _that_ was the 'tell.' _That_ was the clue he'd been waiting to hear. Question was, how in bloody hell was he supposed to make sense of the rest of the story if she still wasn't ready to share it with him?

Without another thought, Cal pressed his forehead against Gillian's. He closed his eyes as he breathed in her scent and rested his palms flat against her back, keeping her body as close to his as possible so that she could feel the truth behind the words he was about to speak.

"Whatever truth you _think_ you have to hide, please know you don't need to hide it from me, yeah? Not from me. Not now, and not ever. Because I already see the real you, love. And the real you… is breathtaking."

He loved her… but he couldn't tell her. He wanted her… but he couldn't have her. He bloody _hated_ Alec Foster… and yet Gillian felt obligated to save the wanker from his own stupidity, lest he self-combust the moment she left. It all felt utterly, pathetically tragic (in an ironic, _'laugh-rather-than-cry_,' _'what-the-bloody-hell-do-we-do-now_?' kind of way) that made him slip into full blown self-preservation mode out of habit alone.

Which would've been fine in any other setting, but in this one?

_It failed. _

Cal had gotten so intently focused on his own inner turmoil that he didn't see the look on Gillian's face that would've told him – if only he'd seen it – that she was going to kiss him again. But he was blind to the way her eyes darkened and to the way her hands began to clutch at him just a little bit tighter. He didn't notice the way her lips parted as the tip of her tongue darted out to wet them. He didn't see any of it, until…

It was already too late.

She was halfway to her target by the time Cal's brain settled down enough to actually experience what was about to happen. Gillian was going to kiss him, and he was still half naked, and it was _right_ and _wrong_ and _dangerous_ and _wonderful_. So wonderful, in fact, that when her mouth finally covered his, the sound of his low, prolonged groan traveled down his chest and outward through his limbs until its reverberating echo met the place where her fingertips touched his skin.

This time, their embrace wasn't about lust at all. Instead, it was about _truth_.

When her lips reluctantly parted from his, she took a deep breath. "Sometimes it's easier to hide from the truth than it is to face it," she said.

It was one of the biggest deflections he'd ever heard, and at the end of it – as she looked up at him from beneath heavy-lidded eyes that were equal parts hopeful and sad – he finally saw with complete clarity what was holding her back.

_Fear_.

Gillian Foster… was scared.

It wasn't fear in the traditional sense, though. She wasn't afraid for her safety or her health – it was nothing like that, and even as much as Cal despised the man, it was common knowledge that Alec Foster was not dangerous. He was a bastard and a royal idiot of the highest degree, but he would've never physically hurt her. No, no… when he looked into Gillian's eyes, Cal saw the kind of fear that was driven by shame and self-doubt, and a thousand other hateful emotions that he was all-too familiar with, but never once expected to actually see from her.

Which was very telling, because _she_ had seen _him_ at his absolute worst: when he'd been piss drunk, belligerent, broken, and sad. But Gillian didn't do that. She didn't crumble. She was always composed and confident, and most of the time she didn't let her walls down at all, not even with him.

Funny how things had changed so quickly. Funny how he'd always assumed that she had the happy marriage, and the stable home life… that she had all of her proverbial ducks in a neat little line, just as they should've been. Funny how he'd always felt the need to protect her from his dark side. He'd pushed her away until she'd _literally_ tangled herself with his body that night on the sofa to hold him in place, and now there they stood, on opposite sides of the line.

_She_ pushed while _he_ pulled, and all of her obedient little ducks ran rogue at their feet.

And it occurred to him then that Gillian Foster was the only woman who had ever made him so self-aware. With her, he listened. He didn't race to get in the last word, and he didn't give a toss about being right or wrong. No, as far as their relationship was concerned, he only wanted her to be happy.

"We're all hiding something, Gill," he offered. "We're all human… we all have secrets. And to some extent, we're all liars. But see, the trick is to figure out the motive. To learn _why_ people lie and _why_ they hide things. Are they just trying to protect the people they love, or in the end, do they only care about protecting themselves?"

For the first few seconds after he finished, Gillian didn't respond. She didn't react, she didn't breathe… she barely even blinked. But then just when his entire body started to fill with panic as he tried to figure out what he'd done wrong… she smiled.

"Trust you to take a marriage filled with lies and broken promises and boil them down into a handful of sad, simple truths," she said cryptically.

She was talking about Alec again, and Cal knew he should've left it alone. He _knew_ it. But…

He just couldn't.

"Let's face it, love. Whatever this is all about, we both know you'll tell me in the end. So wouldn't it just be easier to be totally honest now, when we're _already_ having this conversation? Would save us both a lot of time and heartache that way, yeah?"

"Probably so," she countered. She stooped to retrieve his shirt from the floor, stepped behind him to ease both of his wrists through the sleeves in turn, and then she dragged the soft fabric up until it covered his shoulders. She was stalling… trying to buy herself just a few more minutes while she tried to decide how to steer the conversation toward the finish line.

Which would have been fine if that's all she had done…

_But it wasn't._

In Gillian's mind, "stalling" apparently meant keeping _her_ hands on _his_ body during single second of silence that hung between them. And _bloody hell_ if that didn't just make everything worse. It made him wonder how he'd ever get through a day from this point forward without being able to walk up and kiss her, or touch her face, or do a thousand other tiny little things that he now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he wanted more than anything.

His muscles danced beneath her fingers as it quickly became obvious that whatever miracle had kept them from christening his wall was only a temporary one. Much as they were trying to be mature and responsible about the whole thing… much as they were both trying to make the smart decision… one thing was clear: as soon as Gillian stepped in front of him again, he knew it was all just wishful thinking.

He wanted to warn her; to tell her that the attack of conscience they'd had was likely only temporary. But before he could do it, she dropped a feather-soft kiss against the corner of his mouth and began to back away.

"Trust me, Cal," she sighed. "If I told you the whole story… you'd think I was lying."

* * *

**A/N: Just a note in closing. Gillian ****will**** definitely tell Cal all about Alec's drug use, and about a few other things that haven't yet come to light in the story. I have a very specific setting in the works as to how that's going to happen, and we're not there yet. Soon, but not quite yet. Never fear, though… at its core, this is absolutely a Callian story. The idea of them being apart for very long makes my heart hurt.**

**Also, the last line of dialogue is obviously borrowed from what Cal says to Gillian about Jack Rader in season 2. And there's another bit in there that mirrors his conversation with Emily in Killer App ('You'll tell me in the end...") Those were both intentional. Thanks for reading!**


	24. Chapter 24

_He wanted to warn her; to tell her that the attack of conscience they'd had was likely only temporary. But before he could do it, she dropped a feather-soft kiss against the corner of his mouth and began to back away._

"_Trust me, Cal," she sighed. "If I told you the whole story… you'd think I was lying." _

* * *

Cal Lightman was not a patient man. He was impulsive and single-minded, and once he'd had a taste of what he wanted – both personally _and_ professionally – he didn't make a habit of walking away empty handed.

Take the Group, for example: just a few years earlier, he and Gillian had been working out of his kitchen and her car, chasing every single client that gave them a second glance just so they could get the books out of the red and into the black. And when they finally turned a large enough profit to upgrade to a workspace that _didn't_ include seatbelts, drive-up windows, or Isabel the pug, he still hadn't been satisfied.

Far from it, actually.

In their first year at their 'formal' space, Cal made upgrades to technology, security, staffing, and research. Which lead to bigger cases, better technology, and smarter staffing… until some of the most brilliant minds in Washington were on their payroll and their custom-built, oft-intimidating but well-respected "_Cube_" had earned itself quite the reputation as a 'case cracker.'

It was single-mindedness to the hilt: he had a vision, he 'owned' the science, and he wasn't going to stop until it all felt… _right_. With Cal, pushing forward had always been as instinctual as breathing. One foot in front of the other… inhale, exhale… until he often wound up intimidating others into either giving him his way, or getting the bloody hell out of it.

While that attitude was often great for business, it was often total crap when it came to his personal life. In his _personal_ _life_, he burned bridges. He didn't trust easily. He invested so much of himself into his work that there often wasn't much left over for anyone else. And all of those things had, collectively, cost him nearly every friendship he'd ever had and helped his marriage to Zoe go down in flames before their only child reached her teen years.

In fact, the only people in his life that seemed immune to his bulldoggish behavior were Emily and Gillian. Everyone else had already classified themselves as 'collateral damage.'

And so aside from the very real problem of how he would actually manage to _handle_ his feelings, now that they'd made themselves perfectly clear, Cal was left with the overwhelming paranoia that somehow… someway… he'd wind up sabotaging himself. That his tunnel vision would become so focused on being _in love_ with Gillian – of wanting her in_ that way_ – that he'd either wreck the friendship they still needed to balance, or try to rush them toward the finish line faster, before they were truly ready to cross it.

And_ bloody hell, _he wanted to cross it_. _He wanted to sprint out of his office and chase after Gillian, steer her toward the conference room, and attempt round number two.

Cal sighed and dropped his head back against the wall, as visions of what they'd almost done came swimming to the surface of his imagination once again. His hands on Gillian's body… his lips and tongue melding with hers as slim, eager fingers worked his belt open and set every nerve ending in proximity to it completely _on fire_.

Correction: He didn't just want to _cross_ the finish line. He wanted to obliterate it – to drive the depth of his devotion into her body and her heart, and that one thought alone… that single-minded, Technicolor fantasy… instantly caused his breath to catch in his throat and his heart to pound against his ribcage with a beat that was so fierce it was almost cruel.

_Thud, thud, thud… Gill, Gill, Gill… love, love, love._

It made him wonder just how far he would be able to stretch the boundaries of his self-control before they just snapped. Passion, love, friendship, trust, and patience… as far as he and Gillian were concerned, all of those things were equally important. They needed to be balanced; _respected_. She was legally bound to Alec, and it certainly wasn't his place to shove her toward a divorce attorney just because his libido had grown impatient and needy.

Much as he hated to admit it… for the time being, at least, the proverbial ball was fully in Gillian's court.

And just like that – barely even a full twenty minutes since she'd left him there, alone in his office with the taste of her lips still fresh in his memory and his fingers itching to explore every last inch of her skin – Cal Lightman began to panic.

It wasn't an in-your-face, 'headless-chicken' sort of panic though, because… _well_, panicking over anything that did not involve either potential loss of life or bodily injury just wasn't normally his style. _No, no_… this was more like, stomach-churning, self-doubt-induced, 'I-really-need-some-bloody-Scotch' type of panic that was much more subdued and much easier to hide.

Unless, of course, someone was trained to see it.

_Someone… like Gillian._

Trust him, he had no idea how he'd make it through the rest of the day with his sanity intact because one of the hardest things he'd ever done was to let her walk out of his office. He'd wanted to stop her… to hold her… to tell her that everything would be alright, and that the fact that they'd come pretty bloody close to actually _having_ sex – against the wall in his office, in the middle of a weekday afternoon – didn't _really_ have to change things between them.

He'd wanted to tell her that they could still be Foster and Lightman, if need be; just best friends and business partners who flirted but never permanently crossed the line. That those gold bands that stopped their physical connection had actually, in the long run, done them a favor by not creating extra baggage to throw on top of the load they were already carrying.

But in the end, all of that was just total crap. Because _of course_ things would change between them now. And _of course_ he wanted to try for more. And so when she actually started to leave his office, he hadn't managed to speak a single word. He'd simply stood there in silence, mesmerized by the feel of her soft lips against the corner of his mouth and the fantasy of how utterly fantastic they would've felt on other parts of his body, too.

How bloody pathetic.

Slowly but surely_,_ Cal felt reality start to squeeze an unyielding grip around his chest. He'd fought to hide emotions for years, even while pioneering the science that unlocked the ways people _physically_ expressed it. And now that he'd actually grown balls enough to admit to himself that he did truly love her – in a romantic, sexual, soul-mate kind of way – it felt like everything was mere seconds away from crashing all around him.

_Yes_, he loved her. Yes, he was _in love_ with her.

Trouble was… he couldn't do a bloody thing about it but _wait_.

* * *

The fidgeting began as soon as Cal realized he couldn't very well spend the rest of the day hiding in his office. It was like a weird delayed-reaction type response that took a little while to kick in, but once it did, his body struggled to make up for lost time.

Trust him, he most certainly _did not_ make a habit of getting the woman he loved halfway naked and then just… stopping… without taking her all the way past home plate, and into extra innings. And the fact that he hadn't been able to… finish the game… meant that his normal level of fidgeting had been ratcheted up to the nth degree. Too much testosterone, apparently.

First, he fussed with his shirt – tucking it back in properly and making sure it wasn't totally obvious that it had been flung into the corner by his very eager business partner. And then once he was satisfied with the way he looked – with no lipstick stains on his collar, or misaligned buttons, or… _tented places_… in his trousers – he moved on to pacing instead.

He walked an endless pathway between his study and his main office, around the desk and back again, just looking for a distraction. Something that could make him breathe without automatically picturing her face in his mind on each and every exhale.

_Which, of course, didn't work _at all_._

A few moments later, frustration and impatience finally led him out into the main hallway. He was processing everything that had happened between them, and fighting like hell not to let his impulsivity convince him that what he _really_ needed to do was rip the wedding ring off his finger and head straight into Gillian's office.

Hence, the pacing.

But as luck would have it, when he was on his fifth pass through the corridor and getting the side-eye from every employee nearby, she rounded the corner in the opposite direction and erased almost every single fidget-inducing impulse from his mind with a single smile.

That's right. _She smiled._

_She_ smiled and _he_ breathed, and just like that, Cal began to realize he was overreacting. Because it was Foster, and he loved her, and _well_… so what if all he could really do was wait? So what if the mere image of her face in his mind had him walking around in a permanent daze just because he wanted her so badly?

In the end, none of that mattered. Because he was absolutely certain that no matter how long he had to wait – Gillian was worth it.

First, he'd gotten an attack of conscience at the worst possible time in bloody _history_… and now this: a tidal wave of self-doubt and paranoia over how to handle the fact that he couldn't have make love to her. _Yet_. He needed to get a grip. To get a handle on his hormones and his emotions, before they steamrolled over him and scared the daylights out of Gillian in the process.

He needed to relax. To find his safe zone again; the place that made them both comfortable, and confident, and stable.

And so he closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and decided to trust the instinct that suddenly told him that it really didn't matter which one of them controlled the proverbial "ball." That it was still okay to straddle the line, so long as he didn't set up permanent camp at the intersection of Horny Bastard Lane and Chicken Shit Alley.

_So to speak._

"Oi! Foster!" he called, spinning on his heel just in time to catch sight of her before she turned another corner. The slightly exaggerated sway of her hips instantly drew his eyes, but he managed to divert them before spun back around to face him. "No strings or anything, but for some reason…"

He paused intentionally, feeling more like his normal self again and unable to resist the urge to waggle his eyebrows at her, just for emphasis. "For some reason, I seem to have worked up a bit of an appetite. Free for lunch, are you?"

_And there it was: the ice was broken._

Right on cue, Gillian's eyes began to gleam and she gave him that cute little '_you-are-such-an-arse-but-you're-cute-so-I'll-let-y ou-get-away-with-it'_ pout that was reserved just for him. Oh, how he loved that pout. Loved what it did to her mouth… the way it changed her expression from warm and friendly to flirtatious and playful in only a microsecond.

So _she_ pouted and _he_ grinned, and then they began to walk towards each other. One step at a time… casual, yet not… until they met in the middle and all of the "side-eye" he'd gotten earlier had turned into full blown staring. Trust him to move from despondent and self-doubting, to fidgety and hyper, to flirtatious and sexual, mere seconds after he'd promised himself he could wait as long as it took.

"I see you're testing those boundaries already," she quipped. "It's only been, what? Twenty… maybe twenty five minutes since I…"

He grinned even wider, interrupting her train of thought a second before she could complete it. "Since you kissed me, dangled a carrot in front of my nose with that whole "you'd think I was lying" bit, and walked away?" he offered. "Sounds about right. So tell me, love. _You_ tell _me_. Am I really the only one pushing boundaries, here? Or are you just as confused as I am about how in bloody hell we're actually supposed to pretend that what happened between us back there… didn't?"

Gillian's face was awash in a handful of different emotions, as if her body couldn't decide which one it wanted to focus on first. Arousal, irritation, embarrassment, and affection; Cal ticked them off one by one as she simply shook her head and sighed. "You're still a fan of subtlety, I see," she said.

"Says the queen of deflection, herself."

Her pout returned long enough for him to watch her upper lip tug sideways and disappear into the corner of her mouth; as soon as it did, sensory memory catapulted him right back into their heated embrace. And so he said – without much thought at all – "S'going to be hard enough obeying the line even _temporarily_ now that we both crossed it. Would help me out tremendously if you'd avoid doing _that_ with your mouth from now on, yeah? My willpower is pretty strong, but it'll only hold out for so long before it breaks. And fair warning. When that happens, all I'm going to want to do is…"

Gillian swallowed. Until that point, she'd been careful not to let her body get too close to his, but as Cal's intentional pause hung between them – practically begging her to guess what he wanted to say – she inched forward, just as he'd hoped she would.

"All you're going to want to do… is _what_?" she prompted.

Cal matched her movements, shuffling toward her at a snail's pace while still keeping his gaze locked with hers. And then he simply leaned forward and whispered the one-word answer that instantly made her eyes turn dark once again.

"_Indulge_."

Funny how he'd been so… skeptical… when she'd first walked out of his office. He'd been worried about how he'd ever manage to hide his feelings and now there he stood in front of her, with his libido operating on all-systems-go and his confidence flowing freely.

_That_ was what she did to him. Turned his world inside out and upside down in the most utterly delicious way that left him dizzy in her wake and anxious to see where momentum took them next. And the kicker was… she didn't even _try_.

* * *

An hour and several innuendos later, they finally did take that lunch.

They sat on opposite sides of a corner booth, talking and laughing like always, well within the boundaries of the "safe place" he had been hoping to restore. And aside from the moment when Gillian let her hand linger over his for just a few seconds too long, or when Cal let his fingers brush slightly too low on the small of her back when he lead he toward the door… there weren't many outward signs that anything sexual had happened between them.

For the most part, nothing had changed.

_She_ pouted and _he_ grinned, _he_ slouched and _she_ ordered chocolate, and they were _happy_ together. Happy to remind each other that even though they couldn't go backwards and erase what had happened… truth be told, they didn't want to.

They'd take one step at a time… one moment at a time… as long as they could still move forward, then everything felt surprisingly solid.

After all, their relationship had always been unconventional. They'd met during a psychological evaluation, changed their lives for the opportunity become partners, and wound up as friends. _Best friends_. Everything between them had been clearly labeled, yet somehow grey, right from the start, and this newest twist was no different. It was just… _them_.

So _Gillian_ promised not to pout or try to get him naked while she still wore another man's wedding ring, and _Cal_ promised not to say the words "Lock The Door," or use his lips for any… non-conversational maneuvers… until they were able to ensure that the infamous Gold Band Debacle wouldn't make a repeat appearance.

It wasn't exactly a "plan," but it was something. A first step. A tiny, tentative, welcome first step.

If they hadn't been so distracted, one of them _might _have noticed the tall, broad-shouldered man who sat several feet away from them. The one who paid a little too much attention to Gillian's legs and Cal's stature, and to the way they couldn't quite stop smiling at each other in that mostly innocent, yet oh-so tempting manner that had become as natural to them as breathing.

And they _might_ have noticed the arrogant grin he wore, or the well-time call he made that would wind up being the first of several… triggers… that changed everything.

That plan Cal had? The one that involved straddling the line, while strategically avoiding Chicken Shit Alley and Horny Bastard Lane? As fate would have it, he had only a few days' time before it blew up in his face.

* * *

_**A/N: I had a very surprising 'sounding board' for this chapter, and even though he (yes, he) will probably never read the completed version of this chapter, I wanted to say 'thank you' anyway. Much appreciated! Also, stay tuned guys; the next chapter will be posted before the weekend.**_

_**And again, thanks for reading / reviewing / messaging me, your thoughts are always welcome. (PS-don't let my ending sentence give you the wrong idea. Our heroes haven't come this far for nothing, I just need to turn the storyline a bit so I can aim it toward the finish line.)**_


	25. Chapter 25

**_Disclaimer_: There's a pretty heavy dose of swearing and crude language in this chapter. I assure you, it will not become a pattern; but in my head, that type of language fits the characters in this chapter. That being said, I'm almost finished with the lawyer you all love to hate, so you won't see him much after this.**

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

Zoe Landau was, in a word, a bitch.

She was beautiful and educated and successful, and _on paper_, she was everything Bill Jacobs could've wanted in a client. But _in reality_, she just-so happened to be the woman at the root of Gillian Foster's pathetic (_yet surprisingly effective_) blackmail scheme. And she'd taken his suggestion about flexible custody just as well as he'd predicted.

Which was to say… not well at all.

No, Zoe swore and pouted and did everything short of slicing his testicles off with her fingernails and running them through the paper shredder. She tried to fire him; threatened to pull some strings and try to have him disbarred for unprofessional behavior and a possible conflict of interest… and then at the last minute – just before she stomped out of his office on her dangerously high stilettos and made good on any of those threats – he was hit with a stroke of genius.

Manipulation.

That's right: he opted to play to his strengths.

"You strike me as a woman who is quite invested in protecting her own reputation, Ms. Landau. And I just think that coming off as so cold hearted in front of a judge – especially when the father is, in your case, a man who reads body language and deceit for a living – might wind up working against you. That's all. Because _theoretically_, Cal Lightman could twist anything you say in order to fit his science, and no one would be any the wiser."

She'd been hooked in a matter of minutes. From the implication that Lightman would likely make up anything with even so much as a shred of believability and then use his pseudo-science and British charm to sell it to a judge… to the obvious guilt that went along with a childhood spent shuttling back and forth between parents… he played his hand well.

Zoe was halfway out the door when he all-too casually managed to mention his friendship with Alec Foster. After all, that wasn't a crime. It didn't violate any of Gillian's… terms. Watching the way the information played out across Zoe's face, though? That was priceless.

_And entertaining as hell._

Their game was over before it'd barely even begun, and truth be told… it hadn't even been a fair fight.

* * *

Bill Jacobs had been coming to that restaurant for years, and in all that time, he'd never once bumped into anyone he knew. For him, the anonymity was part of the attraction, and so the very last person he expected to see walking through the door was Gillian Foster herself. She looked as perky and perfect as always, and she was completely unaware that he was sitting just a few tables away, watching her every move.

_Talk about a golden opportunity._

She'd rejected and threatened him… caused chaos with his client… and just as he started to walk across the restaurant to give her a little piece of his mind, he realized she wasn't alone. How convenient.

He'd never seen Cal Lightman in person before, but he instantly recognized the man from the photos in Gillian's house and Zoe's file. He was significantly shorter than expected; older, too. And though they were acting like everything between them was platonic, he suspected it was really just an act.

Take the way they _walked_, for example: Lightman always led her in front of him, with a hand on the small of her back and his eyes trained downward, toward her hips.

Or the way they _sat_: Lightman slouched with his knees spread wide apart, all but wearing a neon sign on his crotch and daring Gillian to look down at it.

Or the way they _touched_ each other: The brush of fingertips here… the nudge of a shoulder there. It was constant, and every time they did it – _every single time_ – she smiled, and Lightman just fed right off of it and tried to win another.

He was charming and flirtatious and so damned attentive to her, that Bill was absolutely amazed that Alec Foster hadn't tried to kick this guy's ass years ago. Given the size difference, it shouldn't have been much of a fight.

"_If you don't manage to hold up your end of the bargain, I will tell him everything. And _then_ I will tell Cal. I'll leave it up to you to decide which one of them you ought to fear more."_

Bill grinned as the memory of Gillian's words suddenly surfaced. Clearly, she'd played him for a fool, because Lightman was obviously no real physical threat to anyone. And right around the time he was considering a face-to-face meeting, just to 'poke the bear' and see what kind of trouble he could stir up… the lovely Doctor Foster made a strategic mistake.

As soon as their food was delivered, Lightman unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves a few times. It was a bit strange, yes, but certainly nothing ridiculous. But when he extended his newly-bared forearm across the table, however… Gillian did a double-take. Her eyes widened, and her breathing changed, and then – _then_ – she began to trace her fingertips over his inked skin as though she couldn't focus on anything else.

Lightman must've said something though, because he leaned across the table just a bit… just enough to catch Gillian's eye… and when he did, she looked up at him as though she was ready to _devour_ him, right then and there.

_Interesting_. There Bill sat, at least eight tables away from them, and if the look on Gillian Foster's face was making him hot, well then… he could only imagine what it was doing to Lightman.

And that was the proverbial 'light bulb moment.' All of a sudden, he knew what buttons he wanted to push… exactly how hard to push them… and when to back off, to let implication and suspicion work to his advantage. There were a few dozen things he needed to handle before his next meeting, but the first one on his list was a no-brainer.

_First_, he needed to make a phone call.

* * *

"Trust me, Bill," Alec insisted. "For them, that's normal. Cal Lightman is an annoying little shit who always has his nose way the fuck too far up my wife's business, but he's her best friend. My hands are pretty much tied."

Just as he'd expected, Foster started with 'denial' right out of the gate. The man was so naive it was almost criminal.

"I think maybe you're too scared to actually put your foot down and remind Gillian that she's married to _you_, not _him," _Bill replied. "I'm serious, buddy. Be careful. Give her too much leeway, and she'll hang you with it."

Was he an asshole? _Yes_.

Did he have proof of anything sexual happening between Cal and Gillian? _No. Not even close. _

And quite frankly, he didn't care if the two of them had sex on the White House lawn, in front of every single member of the Secret Service and filmed the whole thing for profit. _He. Did. Not. Care._

What he _did_ care about, however, was getting even.

And so, he meddled.

Through the receiver, Alec sighed heavily. "Let me get this straight. You call me up in the middle of the afternoon, drop a bunch of innuendo in my lap about my wife's relationship with that little British bulldog, and expect me to do _what_ about it, exactly? I mean, if you really wanted to sell it, you could've at least showed up at the house or something, so we could talk face to face."

_Actually, no. He couldn't. Not thanks to Gillian's foray into the art of blackmail a few nights earlier._

But since he couldn't tell Alec about _that_, he said, "I just thought this would give you some time to digest everything before you had to face her, that's all."

Oh, he was _such_ a bullshit artist. Resourceful and underhanded when he needed to be, but always with just enough wiggle-room not to paint a target on his own back if things went wrong. Right on cue, he heard the sound of heavy staccato footsteps waft through the receiver as Alec began to pace. Apparently the meddling was going to pay off faster than he'd anticipated.

"So what do you suggest, then? That I give Gill some kind of ultimatum? Tell her that if Cal Lightman so much as breathes near her again, then it's… over?"

That was, without question, one of the best ideas Bill had heard in days, and so he laughed. "As a matter of fact, yes. That would be very ironically fitting. Give the lady a taste of her own medicine."

If Alec had been paying close attention, then he would've known that something about the whole conversation was... _off_. But he wasn't. So he turned defensive instead, and tried to beat Bill at his own game without even realizing they'd begun to play it.

"An ultimatum, huh?" Alec said. "Gillian would cut of my manhood and hand it to me on a silver platter if I pulled something like that. Facts are facts, man. And the fact is, my wife and that… _idiot_… are business partners and friends. For the most part, I have no control over how she spends her days with him. _None at all_. Her nights belong to me, but her days? I'm a bit hamstrung, there."

Traditionally, Alec Foster handled stress in one of three ways: he drank, he did a few lines of coke… or he screwed. And since logic ruled out everything but the first option, Bill wasn't surprised to hear three very distinctive sounds begin to waft their way through the phone. Ice cubes rattled, something undoubtedly alcoholic was poured, and a glass was banged down against a hard surface with just a little too much force. Alec wasn't fooling anyone but himself; he was walking a fine line, and it wouldn't take a very big push to shove him over the edge.

"Self-medicating, I take it?" Bill quipped.

Alec grumbled. "What do you care, anyway? It's legal. I'm not driving anywhere for a few hours. And besides… this is a lot less dangerous than the stuff you always pick."

"Says one junkie to another. If I didn't know better, I'd say this Gillian-imposed sobriety has got you feeling… cagey. I'll give you props for climbing back on _this_ wagon, but tell me, Alec. How much more will it take before you fall off the other one?"

_Silence._

At least two full minutes of silence followed that comment, and if Bill had been any kind of real friend, he would've realized that he'd gone too far. But he wasn't. So when he started to hear Alec take deep, ragged breaths that showed anger _and_ frustration, all he could think was that everything was coming together even better than he'd hoped.

"I haven't slept with Christine in months, and you know that. Not since a few weeks after…"

Alec cut himself off before he could say the word, but the implication was obvious. "After Gillian lost the baby, you mean," Bill offered. "Jesus, man, I still can't believe you had nerve enough to keep screwing that girl while Gill was pregnant. You guys went at it like rabbits for months and she never even suspected anything. So either she's completely blind when it comes to the face-reading nonsense that Lightman invented, or… _or_… she had another piece of meat in her life, so she didn't much care where you were putting yours."

Bill Jacobs knew Alec Foster very well. Knew all about his demons – shared most of them – and didn't think twice about twisting them to suit his own motives whenever the time was right. No, he wasn't a good friend at all. He was as manipulative as they came, and perhaps Gillian herself had said it best: he was just '_looking for his next big payday_.' He'd gotten shafted with the Landau divorce, thanks to her involvement with Lightman, and now…

_Now_, as fate would have it, the payday he was after wasn't a monetary one. Instead, it was all about a little revenge. Gillian Foster had declared war and all he wanted to do… was _win it_.

_Yes_, he was a bastard. He knew it. He owned it. And he didn't feel guilty at all.

"I hate to be the one to break it to you," Bill continued. Just for the hell of it; just because he _could_. "But trust me. As far as Lightman is concerned, your lovely wife isn't as innocent as you'd like to believe. And if I were you, I'd start to question just how platonic their relationship actually is."

* * *

Twenty three days.

Alec had been clean for twenty three days, and after just a few minutes on the phone with Bill, he was itching to use again. The drugs were his crutch; his safety net. And some days it felt like he'd never be able to shake them permanently.

_And if I were you, I'd start to question just how platonic their relationship actually is."_

Listening to his oldest friend exploit all of his hard-wired fears about Gill's friendship with Lightman made him feel twitchy. Like everything had slid off-center over the course of one conversation, which – in all honesty – he wasn't even sure he believed. Because this was _Gillian_ they were talking about. _His_ wife, who stayed with him on the bathroom floor while he cried and made promises and fell apart at the seams.

Taking another pull from his glass, Alec tried to argue his point. "I _know_ Gill. I know her heart. She and I have history together. And even though I realize that she's _attracted_ to Lightman, that doesn't mean she's already acted on it."

Instantly, Bill scoffed. "A woman who chooses to sleep on the sofa with her _friend_ instead of in a bed with her _husband_ is shady at best. Wake up and smell the adultery, man. It's brewing right under your nose. And if it hasn't happened yet, then it's coming. Like a speeding freight train."

In all fairness, Bill made a very good point. Alec remembered how Gillian had acted that night, when she pulled Cal out of that bar and brought him home. She'd been defensive and tense, and she couldn't go more than five minutes without emphasizing the differences between them.

'_Just for the record? If anyone in this room needs fixing… it's_ you.'

Yes, he remembered that comment well. Remembered the sight of them sleeping on the sofa together; the curl of her hand around Lightman's bicep, and the sweet smile that told him she'd found peace in the arms of another man. It had been absolutely brutal. And even though he knew he didn't deserve to keep her… even though he was an incorrigible bastard for every horrible thing he'd ever done during their marriage… in the end, _she always came back_.

For better or for worse, in good times and in bad, Gillian always came back to him – _not Cal_. And in a sense, that meant they were solid. That he didn't need to apologize for any of the sins in his past.

_Didn't it?_

Besides, Gillian already knew that he was sorry. She was trained to see it on his face. To see the truth of his regrets and the depth of his guilt. She didn't need to be told in words.

_Did she?_

Without warning, a wave of frustration bubbled up from Alec's gut and pulled the words right out of his mouth. "I'd really like to know what you base all of your suspicions _on_, exactly," he said. "Because the only time you've ever spent alone with my wife was on Friday night when she gave you that tour of our home. Don't presume to know how her relationship with Cal Lightman works when you haven't even spoken to her about the man, or met him yourself."

_Three… two… one…_

Right about the time Alec assumed he'd gotten the last word, Bill laughed. It was an obnoxious, gut-busting, arrogant laugh that made Alec want to ram his hand through the wall just to feel like he had control over something again. And so he squeezed a death-grip on his glass and tried to calm himself down before raw anger made him toss his sobriety right out the window.

"Trust me, buddy. She wants him. Trouble is… I think your sweet Gillian has designs on making it a permanent arrangement."

Of all the words Bill could've said, those were the ones that cut Alec the deepest. And even though a big part of him wanted to hope that they _weren't_ true, the other part – the one that was infested with self-inflicted demons and the baggage of a lifetime's worth of broken promises – was absolutely certain they were.

_Jesus_, he was such a hypocrite. He'd slept with Christine for _months_ behind Gillian's back – even while she was pregnant. And that was _after_ his fling with Andrea. And the one with Sarah. And the one with…

Oh, he was worse than a hypocrite. He was a snake. He was shameful and awful and _weak_. And now there he sat, feeling possessive and angry as hell that Gillian – _his Gillian_ – might be planning to have a little fun of her own. With a man like Cal Lightman, of all people: a scruffy, arrogant, abrasive lush with tattoos and an accent, and a fondness for breaking rules.

_In other words_… she might've already given her heart to the one man in Washington that actually had a prayer of keeping it. And even though Alec knew it would've been the exact ass-kicking that he deserved, he simply didn't want to accept it as a possibility. Not without proof.

One final pull drained his glass, and he slammed it down on his desk with more force than he'd intended. "Give me one good reason why I should believe any of this," he said.

"I don't have to," Bill answered. "Because I've got a sneaking suspicion that Gillian will take care of that part all by herself. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she's not moaning his name in her sleep before the end of the week."

And with that… the bastard just hung up, leaving Alec to stew in his own guilt and paranoia for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

_**A/N: Stay tuned, guys. Big things ahead. :)**_


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer: I'm about to get really close to the M rating by the end of this chapter... just a friendly warning. Enjoy!**

* * *

_F__unny how he'd been so… skeptical… when she'd first walked out of his office. He'd been worried about how he'd ever manage to hide his feelings and now there he stood, with his libido operating on all-systems-go and his confidence flowing freely. _

That_ was what she did to him. Turned his world inside out and upside down in the most utterly delicious way that left him dizzy in her wake, in the best possible way. And the kicker was… she didn't even _try_. _

* * *

Hours after their lunch 'date,' and mere minutes after the last employee left the building, Cal Lightman showed up at Gillian Foster's doorway. Truth be told, she'd been expecting him. Their afterhour's catch-ups had become somewhat of a routine, and they both enjoyed the chance to unwind over a drink, or talk about the progress of their latest cases, or just _breathe_.

To relax. Together.

Because she was temporarily turned away from the door, Gillian _heard_, rather than _saw_, him approach. His footsteps were measured and even – not rushed or forceful – and so she simply waved one hand over her shoulder at him in greeting, and continued sorting her files. Most days, he just walked right in anyway. He'd plop himself down on her sofa or one of her chairs, or even the corner of her desk, and there was never any pressure to say anything, because he knew he was always welcome.

And so she expected to hear those steady footsteps continue until they brought him _physically_ close to her: sofa, chair, desk, or otherwise. But she was only halfway through her stack of filing when she realized that everything had… stopped. Cal wasn't moving, and he wasn't speaking, and just like that – for a handful of reasons that she didn't want to name – Gillian's throat went dry.

All of a sudden, everything felt… _different_.

She could hear him breathing; shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waited for something to nudge him into motion again. And just when she began to wonder if this was all just some kind of test of self-control, or a play on that whole 'willpower' angle that he'd mentioned, finally – _finally_ – he spoke.

"Bad time, love?"

As luck would have it, those three short words were enough to make Gillian completely forget about the papers that were still in her lap and focus all of her attention on the man who'd spoken them, instead: Cal. Her '_no-pressure, let's-have-a-drink-and-talk-about-our-day_' Cal.

Apparently, he was long gone.

His voice was strained and gravely, with just a _hint_ of uncertainty that made her wonder where their conversation was really headed, and if her throat had gone dry for the exact same reasons as his voice had gone… _like that_. Maybe, just maybe, there was something he was trying 'not' to say.

"'Cause I don't want to intrude, yeah?" he continued. Stalling, though there was no real reason to do so. "If you're busy, we can always do this later. Or not. Your call. No hard feelings."

_Oh, that voice. _

It was downright dangerous, even when he wasn't _trying_ to make it dangerous. He was using short, choppy sentences that sounded completely out of character and completely… _wrong_, somehow… and still, all she could focus on was the lilt of his accent and the memory of how it sounded when he spoke against her ear.

"_My Gillian…"_

And so there she sat – on the fast track toward full-blown arousal and she hadn't even _looked_ at him yet. Apparently, he was just that good.

Since she had no idea what the 'right' thing to say in that moment actually _was_, Gillian decided to improvise. She took a deep breath to try and force herself to relax, and then she swiveled in her chair to face him. "I'm all yours," she quipped.

Clearly, she was an idiot. Trust hindsight to make her realize what she'd _actually_ said (and exactly _how_ she'd said it) just a few seconds too late. On any other day, she could've made that comment at least a hundred times and it wouldn't have meant anything… _more_. But now?

_Now,_ everything was different. She'd kissed him. Felt his body hard and ready and perfectly aligned against hers, as he ground her against that wall. Felt the way his hands gripped her hips, and her breast, and her…

Oh, 'idiot' was a massive understatement. Because she'd just looked right into Cal Lightman's eyes and told him – verbatim – that she was _his_. And all jokes aside, both of them heard the underlying truth behind that word. He wasn't an expert at vocal patterns, but he _was_ an expert in all things "Gillian" and he knew just as well as she did that her innocent, off-handed comment wasn't completely innocent at all.

_Shit, shit, shit._

Right on cue, she blushed. Fiercely. Because this was exactly what she'd been trying to avoid. All those feelings she'd been bottling up… trying to pretend that everything was normal… that they could skate right on 'The Line' without erasing it completely, and that all of her sexual feelings (_her many, _many_ sexual feelings_) could just be classified as lust or attraction. That she had – for lack of a better word – a crush.

Ah, the power of denial. When it worked, it worked like a charm. But now that it had _stopped_, she felt like the biggest fool in Washington for _ever_ comparing her feelings for Cal Lightman to those of a 'crush.'

So _she_ blushed and _he_ grinned, and it must've served as a bit of an icebreaker, because he said, "Red's a good color on you, Gill. Brings out all of your freckles."

He was still hovering. Standing just outside her doorway, shifting from foot to foot as he grinned at her, but for some reason he did _not_ come forward. He just… waited. He had his hands in his pockets and his heart on his sleeve, and he was looking at her with such indecision that it suddenly made her stomach jump up into her increasingly-dry throat.

Clearly, whatever was happening between them wasn't 'routine' at all.

It was very, _very_ new.

There she sat, watching Cal as he watched her. Wondering why her insides suddenly felt so tingly, and when the buzz of butterfly wings in her stomach had shifted into funnel clouds that turned reality on its ear, and made her see his face and his body and his… _everything_… from a completely different perspective.

_Uh-oh._

The plan they'd discussed at lunchtime? The one about willpower, and patience, and taking everything one step at a time? Not rushing forward before they were ready? Not throwing additional baggage on top of the load they were already carrying?

If her gut instinct was anything to go on, then that whole plan was about to blow up in their faces.

_Yes_, she was attracted to him. She cared about him, and she _wanted_ him, but she was so afraid of doing anything 'wrong' that she'd long ago made a habit of shutting down her emotions before they got this far. But clearly, that had been a giant mistake. Because as she watched the expression on Cal's face shift from 'indecision' to 'resolve,' Gillian finally understood that avoiding her feelings didn't make them any less _real_.

And so it bore repeating: _Uh-oh._

Within minutes, Cal's hovering became fidgeting, and fidgeting became chattering, and he began to make a dozen random comments about a dozen different subjects – everything from chicken curry, to Loker's research project, to the difference between jazz music and swing. And as he spoke, one single, solitary word began to travel from her subconscious thoughts all the way down her body, until it landed in her gut with a metaphoric thud.

_Love_.

Oh, she was in trouble. She was in big, big trouble. Because that word? That tiny little life-changing word? It was the one she'd been trying to ignore for months. _Months_. And yet there it was: jumping up and waving at her from out of nowhere, as she watched Cal struggle to get a handle on his own feelings while she went through much the same battle with hers.

_Where the hell had that come from, anyway? What happened to normal? What happened to _routine_?_

Gillian couldn't find her voice. She couldn't say a single word to him, lest of all _that one_. Love.

No, no… _that_ wasn't something she could just casually mention when the silence between them became too strong, or the look on his face tugged her heart strings in ten different directions all at once. As far as their relationship was concerned, the fallout would be permanent. They couldn't erase it, and they certainly couldn't hide it behind "The Line." It was simple and yet complicated all at the same time: they could either catch fire and smolder forever, or they could allow the intensity of their attraction extinguish the flame before it overwhelmed them completely.

Gillian sighed, because it all sounded so… pathetically cliché. Like something a lovesick teenager would write in her diary, rather than actual, _real_ feelings between a woman and a man. And so maybe, _just maybe_, she was over thinking it.

_Right_?

Besides, there were so many different ways to '_quantify'_ that word. Maybe she was just… jumping the gun? Being too… hasty. To impulsive.

_Right_?

I love you as a _friend_. I love you as a _partner_. I love you as a _lover_. I love you as a _soul mate_. All of those were valid, and different, and real – and in that moment she couldn't process any of them, because _every single ounce_ of energy in her entire body was streamlined into one sole purpose: self-control.

Did she love him? _Yes_.

Did she want him? _Yes_.

Could she rightfully _have_ him?

No. Not yet._ Damn it._

Whereas she'd gone silent and introspective, Cal _still_ couldn't seem to stop talking. About everything. Sometimes his brain just worked that way; he bounced around from subject to subject, using way too many words and images just because the _right_ ones were buried in his mind behind a backlog of everything else. It was as if he'd grown so accustomed to avoiding words and relying on expressions, that as soon as his mouth decided to speak, his brain struggled to make up for lost time.

Gillian found it endearing. He was nervous and charming and handsome, and she loved him, and…

"Ever hear John Coletrane, Gill?" he said, finally stepping closer. "The way he plays that sax, it's as if the almighty spoke to him directly, right through the keys. And Marsalis? Miles Davis? As far as I'm concerned, those are the top three. No need for debate. Coletrane, Marsalis, and Davis: they _are_ jazz."

She had no idea how the conversation had turned to music in the first place. No idea _at all_. But he'd relaxed enough to keep coming closer to her – one step at a time – and she wanted to say _something_ to let him know she cared. That she heard him.

So she took a deep breath, reminded herself that she needed to trust him, and said the first thing that popped into her head: "Nat King Cole."

At the sound of that one name, Cal smiled. _Message received._

Almost immediately, he began to relax even further. His posture returned to normal, his small smile became a charming grin, and he began to step toward her with just a bit more urgency. Not rushing yet, but definitely moving faster.

"Aye, aye – don't we make quite the pair," he said. "Two workaholics with phenomenal taste in music, and no bloody idea how to actually navigate any of… _this_."

He gestured between their bodies with a seesaw motion, making his intentions crystal clear. And just like that, Gillian began to see the bigger picture. All of those random comments about random, disconnected things were just his way of biding time until one of them… snapped.

'One of them,' meaning Cal, apparently. Because mere _seconds_ after their impromptu jazz discussion, Gillian watched the tension in his face completely melt away and be replaced by something that was becoming downright addictive in its intensity.

_Arousal_.

All their well-intentioned plans to take things step by step, and not rush into anything (_like a bed, or a wall, or a conference room table)_ had apparently just been lip-service. Love, lust, friendship, partnership, trust, security, commitment… they all meshed together in one big, unlabeled lump. Willpower be damned.

He cleared his throat – still making the seesaw gesture – and Gillian swallowed. Because whatever he was about to say was big. As in, "_Lock. The. Door_" big. And heaven help her, if it was anything even _close_ to what she was already thinking, then they were in for one hell of an interesting evening.

"I'm only going to say this once, yeah?" he started. "Because, quite frankly, I'm not sure I have nerve enough to repeat it."

The intensity she heard in his voice gave her chills. Actual chills. Everything between them had become so raw so quickly that she began to feel dizzy, and she was grateful that Cal had paused to catch his breath just so she could catch hers too.

"I've spent most of the afternoon thinking of what it felt like to hold you, and to kiss you," he continued. "How it felt in here… in my heart. How it felt when we stopped. And even though my _head_ knows that we did the right thing, the only thing my _heart_ knows is how badly I want to kiss you again. And how badly I don't _ever_ want to stop."

_Love_.

And just like that, every conscious thought in her head – every potential argument she could've imagined as to why she'd ever tried to fight her feelings – just _died_. Cal's words were literally stealing her breath. He was showing a side of himself she'd rarely seen before… and instead of asking herself _why_ they were doing this, and why she didn't feel at least an _inkling_ of fear about taking the next step with him, all she could do… was listen and nod.

_I feel it, too, Cal. You aren't alone. God help me, I feel exactly the same way. _

Gillian didn't remember standing or walking, but somehow in the next breath she was right in front of him – face to face, and heart to heart as they _both_ began to realize what was about to happen. Hours earlier, she'd been the one to initiate everything: _her_ fingers had tangled around _his_ buttons, until clothing and inhibitions lay in a tangled pile on the floor of his office. And standing there now, as temptation and consequence danced between them once again, the determination in Cal's eyes made it crystal clear that he was about to even the score.

Could she have stopped him? Spoken up _before_ he caught her face between his hands and pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that was so… overwhelming… that it made her knees go weak?

_Yes, of course. _

But his hands were so strong and his body was so comforting, that all she could focus on was the smooth glide of his fingertips against her neck and shoulders, and the sweet ache that filled her body when his tongue stroked inside her mouth. Even the little voice in the back of her head had been caught off guard, and instead of trying to continue the pretense that they should wait… it only managed to _moan_.

Oh, he was incredible. The way he touched her, and the things he made her feel. All of it was just so damn _good_ that she never wanted it to end. She wanted to experience every last inch of pleasure that he could give her, and not even _think_ about reality until nothing stood between them but naked skin and the pounding sensation of blissful release.

Love, lust, friendship, passion, permanence. She wanted… everything.

And so when she finally tried to speak – just as Cal moved his lips to the sensitive spot behind her ear and his fingers gripped her hips hard enough to bruise – the only sound that came out of her mouth was the heated, broken whisper of his name.

"_Cal…"_

Her hands wanted to be everywhere at once; from his shoulders, to his chest, to his thighs and beyond. He was lean and strong and oh-so solid against her, that she decided if those rings (_why in hell were they still wearing them, anyway?_) interrupted everything again, then she just might cry.

"I want you, Gillian," he suddenly breathed. "Right here, right now."

If she could've formed words, she would've told him to take her – hard and fast, anywhere he wanted. That she wanted him, too. That she trusted him, and that she _loved_ him. She would have told him just exactly how good it all felt.

But her body was on fire, and it had stopped communicating with her brain right about the time that Cal's hands decided they were going to roam _south_ of her hips. They'd gone lower, driving her body against his with such rhythmic intensity that she was pretty sure if he continued at that pace, she'd be able to come undone _before_ he actually managed to touch her bare skin.

Words escaped her. They seemed too… _trivial_… to describe what was finally happening.

The _first_ phone call came just as she caught his earlobe between her teeth; when both of her hands were tangled in his hair, and his left one traced the slope of her breasts. But by that time, she was too far gone to care. The damn thing could've rung all day and she would've been perfectly content to ignore it.

The _second_ call came just as Cal's right hand stopped kneading her backside and came around the front of her body instead, to cup her possessively through the fabric of her skirt. He was still keeping the same rhythm… driving her closer and closer to the edge with every passing second. And so she was too distracted to notice that someone really, _really_ wanted to reach her – two calls in less than five minutes (after hours, no less) – because as long as he kept touching her _in that way_, then she'd die a happy woman.

The third call, however?

That one was the game changer.

It came just as Cal grasped the tab of her zipper between his eager fingers, and hers worked hard and fast against his stubborn leather belt. On the first ring, they both groaned simultaneously but _did not stop_: kisses continued, hands worked, tongues dueled. By the third ring, everything began to slow down. And by the fifth, the cold, hard slap of reality finally broke the moment long enough to stop everything dead in its tracks.

_Talk about déjà-vu._

Cal looked positively murderous, as he eyed her desk phone with an intensity that made Gillian shiver in his arms. Oh, she wanted to cry – real, actual tears – out of sheer, overwhelming _frustration_, because she'd been _right there_. _Right there_, seconds away from bliss, and it was just stolen away.

_So close, and yet… so far._

As she fought to calm her breathing, Gillian looked down at herself and then at Cal, and she couldn't help but wonder how it was even possible that they were both still fully clothed. And how in the world he'd managed to take her that far down the path toward total release without slipping even a single _finger_ inside her dress?

It was… mind boggling. Beyond anything she'd ever known. And she really, _really_ wanted to track down whoever had been on the other end of that phone line and _hurt them_.

_Repeatedly_.

Cal's eyes were completely black as his attention shifted from the now-silent phone back to her face. She could feel his hand against her neck as it continued to play with her zipper. As if he was still weighing his options and trying to decide if they'd missed their moment yet again, or if it could be recaptured. Seconds later, she saw a fresh wave of resolve harden his expression ever-so slightly, and she sucked in a sharp breath at the realization of what it probably meant.

"The next time we do this," he suddenly said. "And _bloody hell_, Gillian, I desperately want there to be a next time…"

He paused then, to grip her around the waist and pull her even tighter against his pelvis, just so she could feel how ready he still was for her. His heart was racing and his breath was ragged, and every single inch of her wanted every single inch of him – now, later, always.

_Love_.

"_Next time_, I fully intend to make sure we end up somewhere without phones. Or television. Or radio, or walkie-talkies, or email, or any kind of outside interference _at fucking all_, and… _and_… just to be on the safe side, neither one of us better be wearing a ring. Because I swear to you, love. I swear to you. A third interruption might just kill me."

* * *

**_A/N: Yes, in the next chapter you will find out who was calling Gillian. A hint? It ties into the last chapter with Bill & Alec (that was in there for a reason, I promise), but neither of those men was the caller. Stay tuned. Our friend Alec is about to get what's coming to him very soon. Thanks for reading, guys! I appreciate it!_**


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Just wanted to give a quick thank-you again for the messages, feedback, reviews, etc. Special thanks to Roadrunnerz and solveariddle for listening to my rambling insanity and brining a bit of good luck to my muse. I've been writing like a madwoman all week - just have to tie everything together, and I should have several chapters ready soon. Hope you all are ready for a little insight into why Gillian has continued to stay married to Alec for so long... those pieces of the puzzle are coming next. **

**Also, I'm not sure if I made the timing in this chapter very clear, but this installment happens simultaneously with the last one. In other words, while Gillian and Cal are... _busy_... in her office and being interrupted by phone calls, *_this_* is happening across town, in Alec's office. (Slight language warning in this one, considering the character.) And so... on with chapter 27. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

_One final pull drained his glass, and Alec slammed it down on his desk with more force than he'd intended. "Give me one good reason why I should believe any of this," he said._

"_I don't have to," Bill answered. "Because I've got a sneaking suspicion that Gillian will take care of that part all by herself. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she's not moaning his name in her sleep before the end of the week."_

_And with that… the bastard just hung up, leaving Alec to stew in his own guilt and paranoia for the rest of the afternoon._

* * *

At the end of what was easily the longest work day in the history of his career, Alec Foster powered off his computer and was two steps from the doorway when his desk phone rang again. He was in a horrible mood, thanks to Jacobs' call… hadn't eaten in what felt like year… and he really, _really_ wanted to ignore whatever problem was waiting on the other end of the line.

After all, clients and co-workers had his cell number. Gillian never phoned him, anyway. And Christine? Well, on the very slim chance that it _was_ her, then it was probably best to ignore it, lest he self-destruct himself all the way into rekindling their affair.

The phone grew silent after the fifth ring. Sighing with relief and muttering a 'thank you' under his breath for the invention of voicemail, Alec turned towards the exit again. His nagging headache was quickly turning into a migraine, and he just wanted to get home and talk to Gillian before the pain in his skull got bad enough that he couldn't think straight.

Pain killers, Gillian, and sleep. In that order. And hopefully in a few hours' time, he'd feel like a new man – assuming, of course, that he could get Bill's God-awful comments out of his memory, and the image of Gill in bed with Cal Lightman out of his mind. Because that was enough to make even the sanest men want to throw themselves off a high ledge.

With his briefcase in hand and a scowl semi-permanently plastered on his face, he made it a mere two steps _through_ the doorway before the phone rang again. Once was rare, but twice? _That_ was intentional. Either someone was jerking him around just for 'fun,' or something was seriously wrong. And so just to be on the safe side, he snatched his cell phone from his pocket and checked for any missed messages.

_Nothing_.

There were no calls, no texts, and no emails. Which meant that it _couldn't_ have been an emergency, because surely _that_ would've hit is personal line first, rather than filter through his work line. Five rings later, it stopped again. He was irritated and his head was beginning to throb, and _yes_, it probably would've been faster to just answer the damn thing the first time and be done with it, but if by some chance it _was_ a client, then he didn't want to run the risk of being stuck there until all hours of the night dealing with extra stress.

_How ironic_. It was one of the only nights in recent months Alec had honestly attempted to leave at a normal time, so that he could go home to Gillian – not out with Christine, or flirting at a bar, or hunting down his latest dealer just to replenish his… stock. He was trying this time. _Really trying_. But if he wound up stuck there much longer, he didn't think Gillian would ever believe it.

The third call came just a few minutes later, and when it did, Alec felt the irrationality in his chest begin to build. On the surface, it was just a ringing phone – nothing major. He could've answered it like a _normal_ person, attempt the art of a _normal_ conversation, and then be on his way home to his _abnormal_ life.

But he didn't.

_Instead_, by the time the third call came, budding irrationality had shifted to a type of anger-induced paranoia, and he'd convinced himself that the caller was probably Bill Jacobs. Just trying to fuck with him again. Just trying to stir up… trouble, or jealousy, or whatever the hell his agenda had been earlier. And so by the fourth ring, Alec just snapped. He was pissed and tired and epically frustrated, and all the things he wished he'd said to Bill earlier came flooding into his brain, jumping up and down and waving their arms like windmills. He was beyond patience and polite conversation, and so he snatched up the receiver with a frustrated curse and said the first words that popped into his head.

"Listen very carefully, because I'm only going to say this _one more time_. My wife is not _fucking_ Cal Lightman. She's not. God knows we have our fair share of problems in our marriage, and I'm lucky she didn't divorce my sorry ass ages ago – even _before_ she found out about the drugs. But trust me: she is _not _a cheater_._"

_Silence_.

Alec was out of breath by the time he finished his crude, impromptu speech, and so for the first few seconds, he didn't even notice it. The silence. The overwhelming, _deafening_ silence that suddenly entered the picture and began – for lack of a better way to explain it – to come alive.

_Oh shit._

It was so quiet that the normal, thudding sound of his own heart beating in his ears seemed too much to handle. And even though his first instinct was to just _hang up the phone_, he couldn't. He couldn't move at all. Not a single finger, or a single muscle, save the ones that made him breathe and blink – and even those struggled to cooperate.

"Mr. Foster?"

There are a lot of things that go through a man's mind when he begins to realize he's just made a massive mistake. Panic, primarily. Then fear and regret. And then last, but certainly not least, comes paranoia; that creeping, crawling, 'itch' of dread that simultaneously dries the throat and pummels the stomach, and leaves its victim with only one intelligent thought: _'I. Am. Screwed.'_

Such was his thought process when he realized that the voice on the other end of the line was female. And unfamiliar. Which meant that it wasn't Bill Jacobs, and it certainly wasn't Gillian or Christine. No, the unidentified caller sounded small and meek, as if she was trying to talk him down off the edge of a building, lest he panic and jump to his death. _'Back away slowly and no one will get hurt.'_ That type of thing.

"Mr. Foster, I… I guess I must've caught you at a… bad time, then?" she finally managed. "Um… this is Regina. Regina Cross? From the agency? I tried calling your wife first. Gillian. At her office. I called several times, actually, but there was no answer."

_Oh. Dear. God._

Oh, he was going to vomit. Seriously, he was going to vomit right there on his desk, while Regina Cross kept on speaking to him in short, choppy sentences like he was either a five year old or a mental patient. Bits and pieces of what she'd said slowly filtered through his panic-induced mental fog as he began to realize that Gillian was likely going to kill him.

Slowly.

And with as much pain as possible.

Regina Cross was from the agency. _As in_, the adoption agency. _As in_… the adoption agency where he and Gillian had applied _months_ ago. No one from that agency had _ever_ called before. Not even once. Leave it to him to start out the very first conversation with their liaison by using the words fucking, divorce, ass, and drugs in the same few sentences.

Yes, it was inevitable. His death would be slow and torturously painful, at the slender manicured hands of one justifiably irate Gillian Foster. And when she was finished with him, she'd probably give whatever was left of his corpse over to Cal, and let him have a go at it just for fun.

As he stood there in full-blown panic mode, trying to decide if he ought to just jump out the window right then and save Gillian the trouble, or if there was any way in the world that he could salvage things with Ms. Cross before she ever found out what he'd said, a tiny tendril of optimism began to grow. Maybe, just maybe, it was all still fixable.

Right?

_Wrong_.

Regina cleared her throat – understanding that something had gone horribly wrong, but having no idea what she was supposed to actually _do_ now, either. Hang up? Laugh in his face? Call Gillian directly and tell her what a bastard she'd married?

Truth be told, Alec decided that the final option was the worst. Because he could still _'spin'_ this, so long as Gill heard his side of the story first, instead of Regina's.

"I did try her cell phone too, but it just kept going to voice mail. Perhaps she turned it off? And I… well, I just didn't want to leave this type of… information… in a message. But, _perhaps_ that worked out for the best. I mean, considering what you've just told me, Mr. Foster, I would be greatly amiss not to pass it along to the birth mother. Just to make sure she's making an informed decision."

_Oh, mother of God, he was a dead man._

Not only did he have _no idea_ what would prompt Gillian to ignore both her office phone and her cell phone (_alright, fine… he had some idea, and Cal Lightman stood at the center of it_), the fact that Regina Cross was using the terms "birth mother" and "informed decision" filled him with such foreshadowed dread that his balls proactively drew up inside his body, just to try and keep themselves attached a little bit longer.

There were easily a thousand different things Alec could have said in that moment – a massive apology and plea for understanding being chief among them – but his brain was so busy processing just how in God's name he'd manage to _survive_ telling Gillian what he'd done that all he could think to do… was begin covering his own ass.

"Did you leave _any_ sort of message for my wife, Ms. Cross?" he finally asked. "Anything at all? Your name, number… ask her to call you… mention the words 'expectant mother' even once? Or is all of… _this_… going to come as a complete surprise to her?"

It was the very first step in damage control: finding out who knew what, and how far up the 'chain' that information would travel before he could try to 'fix' it. If Gillian knew nothing – if Regina hadn't left a name, number, or so much as a single _breath_ in her voicemail, then he still had a chance to save himself.

By some minor miracle, Gillian hadn't left him yet. The drugs hadn't done it… the cheating hadn't done it. But this? Letting his idiotic rambling single-handedly ruin her chance at motherhood? Oh, it would most _definitely_ be the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. And he'd be single faster than he could say the word 'alimony.'

Through the receiver, he could've sworn that he heard the muffled sound of laughter as Regina Cross tried to formulate some kind of reply. "No, Mr. Foster, I didn't leave a message," she started. "_However_, rest assured that even though it's certainly not my place to meddle in someone else's marriage, I _do_ owe _Mrs_. Foster the same degree of disclosure that I've given to you. That being said, I think it's very safe to assume that when your wife and I finally _do_ get the chance to speak, it won't really matter how… delicately… I manage to phrase everything. The fact that a birth mother now has to be informed of your drug use and suspicions that your wife is, and I quote, "fucking Cal Lightman" – whoever that might be – will most definitely come as a surprise to her."

She ended the call a moment later. There was no goodbye… no pleasantries… nothing but the click of the receiver in his ear, and the overwhelming feeling of dread in his stomach. Realizing that he'd run out of options as well as time, Alec simply gathered up his things and headed for the door, with the phrase '_dead man walking'_ ringing sarcastically through his mind on every single step.


	28. Chapter 28

"Next time_, I fully intend to make sure we end up somewhere without phones. Or television. Or radio, or walkie-talkies, or email, or any kind of outside interference _at fucking all_, and… _and_… just to be on the safe side, neither one of us better be wearing a ring. Because I swear to you, love. I swear to you. A third interruption might just kill me."_

* * *

Gillian's heart was pounding in her chest as she purposefully moved backwards, away from where Cal stood. She needed distance. Space. Time to calm her thoughts and her hormones, lest she wind up right back in his arms again, like a love-struck teenager.

One step became two, then two became three… and by the fourth step, Cal looked positively pained. He didn't even try to hide the tension in his face or in his frame, and she knew that what he _really_ wanted to do was counter each of her movements with one of his own, rather than just stand there. In the end, though, he held his ground. He gave two shuddering sighs, ran both hands through his hair in frustration, and then eyed her up and down in a manner that was not subtle. _At all._

His expression, his eyes, his entire being had her so wound up that it was all she could do to remind herself to breathe in… breathe out… _relax_. Just relax. He wasn't even touching her, and yet she still felt tiny pinpricks of heat run all along her body every single time he swept it with his gaze. Even from a distance, the connection between them was electric.

How in the world was that even_ possible?_

He gave a smug sounding sigh as Gillian tried to convince herself that everything was _fine_. Or at least as fine as they _could be_, considering that she'd very nearly committed adultery twice in a single afternoon, was contemplating trying her luck at round three, and poor Cal looked like he was walking a thin tightrope between pleasure and pain.

In other words, the entire situation was messy, and complicated, and… and… _what was the word she needed_? It was right there – right on the tip of her tongue, but she could feel it slipping away before her brain could focus on it properly.

The practical side of her personality wanted to label everything; to find a single term that would nicely sum up their quickly-evolving relationship and make it seem easier to… handle. Yes, it was ridiculous. And presumptuous. And likely impossible. But still, she couldn't resist the urge to _try_.

Right around the time Gillian's inner monologue rejected the third possible 'label,' Cal's expression began to shift. Mild amusement and undeniable affection joined the arousal she could still see, and he gave her one of those patented Lightman smiles – as if he'd already worked out whatever secret she was keeping, and was just waiting for her to meet him at the finish line.

Trust him to see right through her, as he'd done so many times before.

"That word you're searching for, love?" he offered. "That… _label_?"

His words and his tone were both completely innocent, but they threw her just a bit off balance. Because how had he known what she was thinking, anyway? Verbatim. Not just a _general_ outline of her thoughts, but the _exact way_ in which she'd formed them?

She wondered if he'd always been able to do that, or if it was… new.

Still smiling, Cal chanced a single step forward. "I don't think it's been invented yet, love. You, me, this… _us_. Search all you like, but trust me. You won't find one. There isn't a _single_ word that fits us perfectly, because they _all_ fit, yeah? All of them. A little bit of everything, we are."

Gillian sighed and shook her head in amusement. She was amazed at how seamlessly everything had shifted between them. In a matter of minutes, they'd gone from innuendo, to raw honesty, and now this: a sidebar on linguistics. Clearly, they'd both lost their minds. Temporary insanity, by way of sexual frustration.

"You… are a very strange man," she said, trying – but failing – to hide the laughter in her voice. "Strange and lovely and charming. But on you? It definitely _works_."

Obviously pleased with himself, Cal shoved both hands in his pockets and took another step closer to her. His eyes were still dark and his grin was bright, and the vibe between them became positively… charged. It was flirtatious and energetic, yet comfortable.

_Safe_.

"Go on, then," he prompted. "Give it a shot. Pick a word – any word – and I guarantee you that I can match it with another that describes '_us'_ just as well. Fair enough?"

It sounded absolutely ridiculous – she knew that. She _did_. But he'd used air quotes around the word '_us_,' which she thought was adorable, and he was just was just so utterly, boyishly _sweet_ that she just had to say something to play along. And so _she_ shuffled towards _him_, so that the full wattage of his grin hit her at the best possible angle.

"You mean like poker?" she questioned. Her voice had dropped to a loud whisper, and she couldn't resist giggling on the last word. "But you want to play it with words instead of cards? Something like… _'I see your 'friendship' and raise you 'loyalty?'_ Because that just seems kind of… _silly_. Doesn't it?"

With his gaze never wavering from hers, Cal chuckled but did not back down. "Humor me, Gill," he said simply. "Because thanks to a pair of rogue wedding rings and a nameless wanker with a telephone fetish, I've been forced to go cold turkey on _you_ twice today. _Twice_. And trust me – that's pretty bloody difficult, because I'm not the type of man who quits until the… game… is finished. So to speak. In fact, most times, I enjoy taking in a few… extra innings. So unless you want me to keep using these colorful euphemisms for the foreseeable future, just humor me. Give me the chance to think about our relationship in terms that do _not_ involve my lips on your body, or your hand down my…"

_Oh, that voice, that smile, and that confidence: when combined, it was positively _dangerous_. _Her jaw dropped open as quickly raised one hand between them in hopes that the gesture would stop him cold.

It worked.

"Message received, loud and clear," she said, feeling the heat that bloomed in her face at the mental image his words had prompted. The very _detailed_ mental image. Complete with a soundtrack and mood lighting, and_… yep, she was in big, big trouble. _And the word 'dangerous' was definitely an understatement.

"So… I'll spot you a few points," he said nonchalantly. "You take the first turn, and I'll follow your lead. First one to draw a blank, loses. Fair enough?"

_Seriously? He was going to play this as an _actual_ game? _

"Alright, fine," she agreed, giggling outright as Cal pretended not to notice. "But the first pick is obvious. It's 'friendship.' After all, that's a big part of our…foundation, right?"

Cal nodded in agreement, as she watched the smile on his face grow impossibly wider. "No arguments here, love," he said. "Very well played. And so I'll see your 'friendship,' and raise you… '_partnership_.'"

How was it even possible he'd made that word sound so… inviting? It was just an ordinary word – three syllables that they used all the time, as far as their business was concerned. But hearing it now, in that context? It sounded… entirely different.

In a _very_ good way.

So she swallowed and dropped her gaze to his mouth before bringing it back to his eyes again. They were dark and inviting and – _wait a minute_. What was she doing, again? Oh, that's right… a _word_. She needed a word. It was her 'turn,' after all.

"Strength," she managed – which was ironic, because by the time she finally said it, her voice sounded measurably weaker. She was distracted, and somewhat aroused, and… _damn him, anyway_.

Cal looked extremely pleased with himself. Inching forward, his reply came quickly. "_Trust_."

Gillian felt as though the temperature in her office had risen ten degrees in thirty seconds, and she had to resist the urge to fan herself with one of the pages on her desk. The room was positively _stifling_.

"Risk," she tried. Because really… wasn't that just as essential to their relationship as everything else? Risk with their business, with their clients, and with themselves. It was a natural fit – a perfect choice – but Cal countered it almost immediately, with a word that was equally as perfect.

"Safety."

He looked calm and collected, like they did this sort of thing all the time and it wasn't a big deal at all. And so she quickly decided to up the ante, just to make him squirm. Just because she _could_. "Danger," she said.

It took less than half a second for him to counter it. This was his game – his way – and he certainly played it very well.

"Empathy, Gill," he offered. "You have it more so than I do, granted. But it's there. Empathy. We've had that from day one, I'd say."

_Yes. Yes, they had. _That_ and so many other things, right from day one._

They were inches apart then, drawn together by both attraction and curiosity, and she fought off the urge to run her hand up the center of his chest as she spoke her next word. All of a sudden, it didn't feel like a game anymore.

"Loyalty," she breathed.

Cal's eyes flickered all over her face: from her lips, to her jaw, to the soft corner of her eye, where he'd traced her skin with gentle fingers more than once that day. Then they dropped lower, past her jaw and past her throat, and she heard his sharp intake of breath as he selected his next word.

"Adventure," he said.

His voice was thick and gravely, and it sounded so very inviting that she focused all of her attention on the mouth that formed the word, and forgot that she needed to form one of her own.

"D'you hear me, love?" he asked, grinning in a way that distracted her even further. "Or do you need me to repeat it?"

_Adventure_.

_No, no_… she'd heard it just fine. Trouble was, it stumped her. _Completely_. Because… _well_, because everything with him truly _had_ been an adventure, right from the beginning. Business, friendship, clients, and everything else. No two days were the same, and she loved that. Truly. She loved it.

And she loved him.

But because she certainly wasn't ready to tell him _that_, she fumbled. Big time. "Since when are you the language expert," she teased, careful to keep everything lighthearted and fun, in hopes he wouldn't notice that she hadn't yet given him an actual word. A word that fit _his_ rules, and _their_ relationship, and… oh, her eyes were dropping to his mouth again, and he'd seen it, and… _yep_. She was toast.

He'd already won.

With his grin at full throttle, Cal closed the tiny sliver of distance between them and pressed himself against her body. "Since a few minutes ago, when your tongue was in my mouth and my hands were past your hips, and I could hear all of those tiny little noises you make whenever I nuzzle my lips against your…"

Gillian groaned. Right then – right on cue – she just… _groaned_, and Cal didn't miss a beat.

"Yep, those are the ones," he said. "They make every single _inch_ of me want to make sure we do this right, yeah? Because there's nothing wrong with taking our time, so long as we both have the same destination in mind. It's not _when_ we reach the finish line that's important to me, but rather… how we choose to walk the path that leads us there."

He'd gone from serious to playful to intense in less than thirty seconds, and the ease with which he transitioned between them was making her head spin. In a very, _very_ good way. One that made the devil / angel duo return from their hiding places to dance upon her shoulders once again.

Gillian knew she _should've_ been second-guessing herself. She should've been wondering how she'd fallen so hard so quickly, rather than trying to mentally undress him (_shirt, shoes, belt, pants – in that order_). And she _should've_ been wondering how they were going to keep things discreet.

But instead she was struck with some kind of impromptu ADD that insisted the word "predicament" was a really awful choice, thanks to its second syllable… and that it didn't matter if he wore boxers or briefs, so long as she got to find out pretty soon… and that his hair felt so much thicker than she'd ever expected. Heaven help her distracted mind, as soon as the word "thick" popped up as an adjective, her inner monologue decided to attach it to… other parts… of his anatomy as well.

_Oh, she needed a cold drink. And a fan. Maybe both._

And just like that, five very long minutes had passed. She still hadn't spoken. And the grin on Cal's face had turned downright lascivious.

In any other circumstance, she probably would've been embarrassed. But standing there with him, she wasn't. Not even a bit. It just felt… _natural_. Knowing what it felt like to kiss him, to run her hands across his chest, to feel the scrape of his stubble against the sensitive skin of her throat as he growled her name through clenched teeth and…

"Gillian?"

His voice was tight and high pitched, and it caught her attention immediately – as did the slightly pained expression he suddenly wore.

"Two magic words, yeah? Cold shower. Plan to take one myself, as soon as I get home. Would invite you over to try it personally, but… something tells me we might wind up diverting from the script and… well, you get the idea. Granted, it would be one hell of a spectacular way to spend the evening, but it wouldn't solve much of anything. Much as I wish it would."

He was breathing hard and fast, and it took her a few seconds to realize that she was doing the exact same thing. Their bodies were mirror images: posture, expression, mannerisms… everything. And so she sighed. Deeply. She took strong pulls of air in through her nose and out through her mouth, as she willed her heart to slow down.

_Jesus, he smelled good._

"Is that your eloquent way of telling me that you don't have a clue as to where we go from here, either?" she finally managed.

"So to speak, yeah," he nodded. "Much as it kills me to admit it – and as much as certain parts of my body are about to stage an intervention just on general principle – I think we have to focus on the bigger picture, and put everything else on pause for a while until it's all sorted out. Fair enough?"

_No_. And _yes_. Back and forth, _again and again_… but basically, yes. He was right. That was fair enough.

* * *

"So what's the verdict, then? Bloody tosser didn't leave a message on your desk phone, but did he leave one on your cell?"

Gillian rolled her eyes, in a way that showed she was more amused than annoyed. "I love how you just automatically assume it was someone _male_," she said. "It could've been anyone. A client, or a wrong number, or an employee. No need to make assumptions, right?"

"Maybe not, love, but a client would've left a message. A wrong number wouldn't have happened _three times in a row_. And an employee would've started with your cell, yeah? So I can't help it. I'm curious."

"Three missed calls," she said simply, holding up her cell phone so that he could see the screen. "But the number's blocked. It just says 'unknown caller.'"

Cal frowned. He was obviously intrigued, but was trying not to be obsessive about it. After all, it was a phone call, not a physical threat. In the grand scheme of things, how important could it have been?

"Bit of a mystery, then," he offered. "But since they didn't leave a message, then it can't have been anything important, right?"

Those were her thoughts exactly. Trust him to read them yet again. "Well, my perspective is still a bit off," she said lightly, "but no. I imagine not. At least nowhere near as important as what we were about to do when they called."

"Bloody right," he quickly muttered, unable to hide the grin that bloomed as soon as her implication became clear.

She was careful to stay at arm's length, eyeing him from what little distance they'd re-created since his 'put everything on pause' comment, and trust her, she really was trying to keep it… secure. But he would _not_ hold still. He was fidgety and his shirt was somewhat askew, and her gaze kept dropping past his waist, to the very noticeable… _tension_... that was visible down there.

_Stupid phone calls. Stupid responsibility. Stupid… _reality_._

It wasn't supposed to be so difficult. Was it? _She_ was still married, and _he_ was still married, and they were _adults_, for heaven's sake. They were reasonable, well-educated, logical _adults_. Not impulsive teenagers. Waiting should not have felt like torture. After all, Alec Foster and Zoe Landau deserved… _something_… didn't they?

Consideration, or respect, or… something.

_Right_?

"I can hear you thinking over here, Gill," he suddenly said. "And yes, you're right. It _shouldn't_ be this bloody hard. But it _is_. And we're just going to have to handle it."

She shook her head, amazed and impressed that he'd read her so well, yet again. "How in the world did you…?"

He simply shrugged. "Because I know you. You're a good person, and now that the heat of the moment has mostly passed, all those half-finished thoughts in that brilliant mind of yours are swirling around like a funnel cloud and threatening to knock you over. Like I said before, your first instinct has always been to protect everyone else. And whether you're still in love with Alec or not…"

"I'm not," she interrupted. Sternly.

Cal grinned. "Good to know, but my point is the same. You aren't in love with him, but part of you _will_ always love him. That's just how it works, yeah? And despite everything that's happened between you – all the things I know, and all the things I don't – in the end, you don't want to hurt him."

Shocked at the sheer accuracy of Cal's words, Gillian paled. Her hands were clammy and her heart was pounding, and she felt a very strong sense of exposure, because he really _could_ see everything. Her thoughts, her fears. _Everything_.

"You must think I'm crazy," she breathed.

"Not in the slightest," he countered. "You and I, Gill? We're solid. Our friendship… our partnership… it's there. Permanently. And if all the pieces come together, and we are lucky enough to really get a go at this – an honest to goodness, real, genuine _chance_ – then I don't want to start off with any regret. And hurting Alec? _As in_, intentionally hurting him? I know that's the last thing you want to do. So… we wait. I'm a big boy, love. I can take it."

He was right. Every single word he said was so eerily-accurate – so spot-on to all the things she was thinking, but hadn't found the way to actually _verbalize_ – that she felt relieved to know that he understood. And even though her body was ready to stage some kind of revolution because it still wanted him so badly… her heart and her mind both realized that rushing things would've been crazy.

Their timing was terrible, as always… but at least it was progress. And besides, she knew what it felt like on the other side of the coin. All those nights when she _knew_ Alec was with Christine, instead of her; when she _knew_ that he'd purposely chosen someone else, because he didn't want to come home. She knew the pain of it. The self-loathing, and anger, and _ache_ of it. And despite everything that had happened in their marriage, she didn't want to hurt him. Not that way.

Gillian sighed, offering a small, sad smile as she covered both of Cal's hands with hers. "Are you scared?" she asked.

He nodded. "Bit terrified, actually."

_Terrified_.

That was a big word. A very big word. Somehow, she hadn't expected him to phrase his feelings quite like _that_. "Are you scared that it won't work between _us_?" she prompted. "Or that Alec and I will…"

With a quick squeeze of his fingers, Cal tried to reassure her. "No, love. No, it's nothing like that."

"Then, what is it?" Her question was hardly eloquent, but he didn't seem to care. Every single cell in her body stood at attention, silently waiting for his answer as her eyes watched him struggle with how to form it. In the end, though, it took only a few short moments for him to speak the words that she would feel all the way _through_ her body… past the fears, and the few tendrils of doubt… past the borders that still threatened to keep them separated, and all the way back again, to her heart. Her _heart_.

_Love_.

"You… me… this… _everything_," he started. "It's hard to explain, Gill, but… you make me feel… _safer_… than I've ever felt in my entire life. Because you see me. The _real_ me. Past all the scars, and all the bullshit, and all the utter _crap_ that has made almost everyone else in my life run screaming in the other direction. You see me when I'm being a bastard, or an idiot, or a complete fool, and yet here you are. Still standing with me. Still holding my hand and looking at me with those beautiful eyes, and making me want to prove that I deserve you. That I'm worthy of having this chance. I trust you, Gill. With everything. My daughter, my life, my heart. And I think what terrifies me the most is that I'll do something stupid to muck it up. Something that will make you regret ever giving me the time of day, let alone a chance at loving you."

By the time he finished speaking, her knees were shaking and her eyes were watering, and if she hadn't still been holding onto his hands, she quite possibly would've dropped straight to the floor. Because what he'd just said was – without question – the sweetest thing she'd ever heard in her life.

_In her life._

And oh, she loved him. In every possible way. Friend, partner, lover… everything. But try as she might, she could not get her mouth to cooperate with her brain long enough to actually _tell_ him. It opened and closed a few times, but no. Nothing. The words would not come out.

_I love you, Cal._

That's all she wanted to say. Four syllables. But they didn't come.

She searched his eyes, drinking in every single emotion she saw – too many to name, and each one stronger than the last – until finally, she raised both hands to his face, cupping his jaw in her palms as she leaned close enough to rest her forehead against his.

"Trust me, Cal," she breathed. "You are the one thing in my life that I don't think I could ever regret."

* * *

_**To Be Continued...**_

_**(This chapter went much longer than I expected, so the first bits of Gillian / Alec insight are coming up in the next installment. I'll have it posted by the weekend. Thanks!)**_


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: This chapter is the beginning of my attempt to bring more insight into Gillian's marriage. It's full of flashbacks of their life together, to show how they got to their "current" point. There will be at least 3 of these, and I'll separate them with installments of "current" storyline, so you (hopefully) don't get too bored. Cal will most certainly be making appearances in these flashbacks, beginning (sort of) with this first one. Also, there's a small bit of M content in this chapter, but probably not with the characters you'd expect. Just a warning... :)**

**As always, thanks for reading! Much appreciated!**

* * *

_Gillian had flown right past 'nervous' and was now in full-blown 'panic' mode. It was stifling hot, and her body couldn't seem to decide if it wanted to upend everything she'd eaten, or faint right there in the middle of the crowd. Oh, there were _so many people_. _

_Paranoia told her that everyone else probably had family in attendance – proud parents sitting in the audience with cameras and tissues and genuine smiles. But Gillian didn't. She didn't volunteer the details, and no one asked her to share them. After all… there really wasn't a 'good' way to spin the fact that since it was Saturday, her father was busy drinking himself into oblivion, while her mother blamed his behavior on _everyone_ and _everything_ that didn't deserve it. _

_The crowd would be "too stressful," they'd said. It was "too far to drive"… "too hot in the audience"… "too many rules to follow." And they'd _paid_ for her tuition, hadn't they? Financial support still counted as support. They didn't need to actually _see_ her accept her doctorate to appreciate the fact that she'd earned it._

_Alcoholism first. Denial second. Gillian third. Everything always fell in that order. _

_Minutes passed, and she knew they were getting closer. It would be her turn soon. Just a few more rows and then she'd have to stand; to parade with the others, with her fake smile and her shaky stomach and her pale, clammy skin. A Graduation ceremony, they called it. It felt a bit like torture, instead._

_A beat later, her section rose and collectively shuffled right. They flowed out into the aisle… walked in a straight line… didn't rush. And she could _not_ breathe. Literally, she could barely catch her breath long enough _function_, let alone actually _walk_. In a sense, it felt like she was drowning. She was just one of several thousands of graduates, all in identical caps and gowns, all wearing the same predictable smiles, all feeling a terrifying mix of euphoria and fear, because they'd been on this path for years. _Years_. And really, none of them had a damn clue what came next._

_Left foot… right foot… shuffle forward… wait. _

_She scanned the crowd for Alec's face. He was the one person she _knew_ was there to see her. Not because he _had_ to, but because he _wanted_ to. _

_There was a difference._

_But they called her name before she found him, and her heart began to pound even harder, though she hadn't thought it was possible. Up the stairs, and across the stage (Dear God, why had she worn such high heels?)… please don't trip, everyone will laugh... and then there she was. Diploma in hand. _

_She'd made it. _

Finally_._

_Inhale… exhale… for better or worse, it was over._

_When she came down the stairs on the other side, Alec was right there waiting for her. He was smiling brilliantly and opening his arms toward her, and suddenly it didn't matter that her family _wasn't_ there, because_ he was.

_He always was._

_Wrapped in his embrace, she heard his sweet voice whisper a hundred things she'd likely never remember, and above them all stood one simple thing she'd never forget._

"_I love you, Gilly," he said, dropping kisses against her cheeks and her eyelids, and her mouth as he spoke. "And I'm so very proud of you." _

_And in her heart, she knew he meant every single word._

* * *

_Ordinarily, they did not fight. Not ever. But she hadn't slept in what felt like days, and Alec was just so damned perky – so uncharacteristically 'on' all the time, like he had caffeine mainlined into his body and he just couldn't hold still. _Work_ was wonderful. Their _apartment_ was wonderful. The _city_ was wonderful. _Taxis_ were wonderful._

_It was ridiculous._

_She stomped into the bedroom, tossed her jacket aside, and waited for him to follow her – certain that he would, because he always did. And six steps later – just like clockwork – his head peeked around the bedroom door._

"_You're angry with me, aren't you?" he asked._

_It was one of the stupidest questions she'd ever heard, and she tried to force herself to calm down, lest she stab him in the eye with the heel of her shoe. He could be _such_ a jackass sometimes._

_He smiled, trying to charm his way out of trouble and said, "Come on, Gilly, it didn't mean anything. You know that. I was just having a little fun, that's all. No harm in that, right?"_

_Correction: he could be such a _stupid_ jackass sometimes. _

_She was fuming. "Well then you must hate all of this then," she said, waving her hands around the room to try and emphasize her point. "Living with me, and working with her. It must really cramp your style."_

_There was a tiny voice in the back of her head that tried to tell her she was being irrational and overreacting, but it fell away a few seconds later when Alec spoke again. _

"_Best of both worlds," he said, trying to be cute. "Beautiful girlfriend at home, beautiful friend at work, and…"_

_She turned away before Alec could finish, letting his half-assed explanation hang between them. _

_Truth was, she didn't want to listen. She'd seen this pattern before, with her own parents. One drink became a few… a few became several… several became an addiction… and for reasons she could not name, she was terrified that this would become a similar thing, just with women instead. Innocent flirting here, a friendly peck there, and then poof! She'd either be left with a broken heart, or with a habit of second guessing every single move he made. She didn't want to be _that_ woman. _

_She didn't want to turn into her mother._

_And so it was her own inexplicable fear that caused most of her anger. "Maybe your 'friend' is the real reason you've been so happy lately, then," she reasoned. "Because ever since you took that job, it's like you're a different person. Everything makes you talk about how wonderful your life is, and until today, I've been stupid enough to think it was me. That I've been the one to make you smile or laugh…" _

_Trust her to choose that moment – _that exact moment_ – to kick off her shoes. _Literally_. The first one went just fine, but for whatever reason, the second one got stuck. So she flicked her ankle just a little bit too hard, which then sent the shoe sailing high and fast, until it collided with the window frame with enough force to actually crack the heel off. _Snap_._

_That's right: she'd broken her own shoe by kicking it at the wall._

_With a humiliated sigh, Gillian shuffled across the room, noting that if she still wanted to stab Alec in the eye with her heel, the logistics had just gotten a whole lot easier. Stupid shoe. Stupid wall. Stupid blonde Rachel._

_Behind her, Alec chanced a chuckle. "Does it count if I laugh now, sweetheart? Because I'm sorry, but… I just can't help myself. _That_ was priceless."_

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

_Gillian sighed again, fighting back the smile that appeared out of nowhere as she faced away from him. She had to admit, the whole thing was kind of ridiculous. But…_

_No. Not yet. She'd _seen_ him with that other woman – that tall, beautiful, blonde woman. And she'd _seen_ the look on his face as he stood there, flirting his ass off and touching her shoulder, then her arm, then her hand as if it was nothing. As if it could've _ever_ been nothing._

_Gillian wasn't stupid. She'd read that book _(Doctor Lightman, wasn't it?)_ about micro-expressions and facial muscles; knew what it really meant to have dilated pupils, and labored breathing, and for a man to square his entire body against a woman. It was obvious. And she was _pissed_._

_Unable to ignore her stubborn silence any longer, Alec sighed. "This is about that book again, isn't it?" he said. "Funny how that works. You've done nothing but quote passages at me for the last week, but you still haven't asked my opinion about the content."_

_Gillian rolled her eyes. Nearly two years of togetherness told her that Alec was in 'duck and cover' mode, now. With a side of charm, just for good measure._

"_You haven't _asked_ my opinion, but I'm going to give it to you anyway," he continued. "Ready?"_

"_Doubt it," she retorted, spinning around to face him again. He was looking at her with such an openly adorable expression that it was all she could do to hold on to the anger. She could feel it slipping away from her, inch by inch, as he nudged closer to where she stood. Damn him. At times, his smile could be downright dangerous._

"_Micro-expression," he started. "Using arbitrary pseudo-science and facial muscles to decide when someone _is_ or _is not_ lying? I think it's all just total crap."_

_Another eye roll. Of course he thought it was crap; he hadn't even bothered to read the book. "Based on _what_, exactly?" she asked._

_Still smiling, Alec stepped closer. "Based on the fact that the author is an idiot, primarily."_

_Gillian frowned. "He's a scientist, Alec. A doctor. He's not an idiot."_

"_Men can be many things, Gill. Good or bad, right or wrong… idiot or genius. Sometimes it's a mix and match deal. And so I think the guy may very well _be_ intelligent, but his so-called science? Trust me: it's all fake."_

"_Convenient to bash it now, when it tells me – with certainty – that you wanted to screw that woman, just to prove you could. Just to boost your own ego. And I'm sorry, Alec, but I can't help but think that maybe it's best if we just end things now, before they get even messier than they already are."_

Wait a minute… what had she just said?

_Trust her, as soon as the words were out, Gillian regretted them. She loved him, and she didn't want to leave him, but sometimes he just made her so flustered that she didn't know which end was up anymore. They were _that_ wrapped up in each other. It was hard to tell where she ended and he began, and it was scary and wonderful and – in a sense – risky. She'd never trusted anyone so completely before. He held her whole heart in his hands, and sometimes… self-preservation made her wonder just how careful he'd be with it in the long run._

_Lucky for her, though, he was even more stubborn than she was._

"_Do you really want to know why I was talking to Rachel?" he prodded._

_Gillian scoffed, the sound of the other woman's name instantly leaving a bad taste in her mouth. "Oh, I don't know… maybe because you were horny, and she's beautiful, and you just thought…"_

_Two strong hands stilled her body as he inched toward her with kind eyes. Which felt out of place, somehow, because hadn't she just tried to break up with him? Kindness didn't quite fit the moment._

"_She's not _you_, Gill_. _She could dance naked into my office and climb on my desk, and she'd never compare to you. I don't want her. Never will. And trust me, this was not how I wanted to do this. Not by a longshot. But I'm going to do it anyway, because I need to make sure you understand that I'm telling you the_ truth_. And that I love you with all my heart."_

_Gillian frowned. Everything seemed heavy and slow, and her heart was pounding like it had an inkling of what was going to happen next, even though her brain didn't yet understand. He was moving away from her, tucking one hand into his pocket to pull out a small black box, and he was still smiling at her – standing close but not quite close enough for her to touch him. Then he was kneeling… _down, down, down_ onto the carpet, right there where they stood. God, she still had her broken shoe in one hand._

_Alec's left knee hit the floor right about the same time her jaw fell open. Her stomach began to tremble, and her eyes began to water, and _what in the hell_ was he doing? _

_This was happening now? _

_Here? _

_It didn't seem real._

_She was seconds away from kneeling down next to him – insisting that she was just being crazy… that she didn't want to break up with him, and that she'd stop quoting that book and start using her own words… that he didn't have to propose just to keep her in his life. That she'd still wanted to be with him, and that she loved him._

_But…_

_He reached up and touched her waist, and she could not have moved if her life depended on it. She was just… frozen. _

"_I couldn't keep it to myself," he shrugged, unable to hide the color that flamed his face as he spoke. He was so proud; so _happy_._ _"I showed it to everyone at the office, and Rachel just happened to be the last one. I was showing it to her when you stopped by today. That's why I reacted_… like that. _I was trying to keep it a secret."_

_Oh, God she was an idiot. Hormonal and raving, and why had she ever decided to read that book in the first place? Stupid Doctor Lightman and his trouble making theories. _

"_The ring," he continued. "I bought it weeks ago. And I've just been waiting for the perfect time, that's all. Which, _obviously_, is not _this_. Not here. I know this isn't perfect. But you are, Gill. _You are_. And I love you so damned much. You make me want to be a better man, one who can give you… everything. Family, fortune, security, happiness, love. Forever. And I'm serious, sweetheart: you are the only one in here – in my heart. It could only ever be you."_

* * *

_The guilt came immediately – when he was still inside her body, and the consequences of what they'd just done made him feel like the biggest piece of shit in the entire world. He and Gillian had been married less than three months, and he'd already failed her. _

_A few flirtatious conversations led to hugs… which led to lunches… which led to drinks… which led to kissing…and so on, and so on for _weeks_, until he wasn't even sure how they'd ended up there: in the backseat of his car, half naked and physically spent. He was groaning into the side of her neck – random, broken curses and a string of apologies that did nothing to make him feel better, or to erase the damage they'd caused._

_After all, they couldn't "fix" it, and they certainly couldn't undo sex. _

_Truth be told, it wasn't even very _good_ sex. Rachel was beautiful and kind… she was more-than willing… but she wasn't Gillian. She wasn't _his_. Not really. He wasn't in love with her – not even close – and as shameful as it felt to blame his indiscretion on hormones and alcohol, in this case it was accurate. _

_Drunk, horny, and stupid were pretty fitting._

_Yes, he and Rachel were attracted to each other. They were friends. They flirted. But it _should have_ stopped there, long before he'd ever kissed her, or touched her, or put any part of his body inside any part of hers. 'Let's create a line,' he'd said. 'A boundary. Something that will stop us from acting on our attraction before it burns us alive.' _

_How idiotic. A 'line.' _

_As if that would've ever stopped anyone._

_God, Rachel was still on his lap – tangled with his body, and he was still half-hard inside of her. And he knew he needed to withdraw as quickly as possible before they did something insane. Like do it _again_._

_But…_

_When he'd shifted his hands off of her breasts and down to her hips to lift her, she misread his intentions and ground herself _down_ on him again. Enthusiastically. Complete with sound effects, swearing, and the nearly indecipherable chanting of his name between her lips._

'Harder, faster, please don't stop…'

_Half-hard became fully engorged in seconds, and then before he could even realize what was happening, she was squeezing him. Rippling around his length, and groaning nonsensical praises, and everything felt so damned _good_ that he literally couldn't stop himself. The second round was over before it had barely begun, leaving him physically satisfied but emotionally broken in the backset of his own car._

_How pathetic._

_Oh, he was such a bastard. A weak, weak bastard who'd just cheated on his wife (_twice_) with the one woman he'd promised he didn't even want._

"She's not you, Gill. She could dance naked into my office and climb on my desk, and she'd never compare to you. I don't want her. Never will."

_Fantastic. Now he was a liar, too._

* * *

_It didn't look scary. Now that it was lined up in front of him, it actually looked… oddly innocent. Like powder. Which it was, of course… but… _yeah_. This kind was different._

_Jesus, what the hell was he doing? _

_He didn't belong there. Not again. This wasn't some college party, or frat house initiation, or anything even remotely casual, so why was he just sitting there? Tolerating it? Sitting tall in his seat next to someone who was supposed to be his friend, and allowing himself to get pulled right back in?_

'_Cocaine, Alec?' he asked himself. 'Wake up, you idiot. This won't help anything. It'll just make everything worse.' _

_From the other side of the table, Jacobs scoffed. As if he'd read Alec's mind and literally _heard_ his hesitation. _

"_This is just what you need to help you relax," he encouraged. "After a few lines of this, the last thing you'll be thinking about is that piece of tail you caught last month. Seriously, Alec – that guilt is toxic. It'll eat you alive if you let it. And besides, what's done is done. Can't change the past, right? So what are you _supposed_ to do? Confess? Tell Gill that you screwed Rachel in the backseat of your own car – twice – but that you're sorry? That it didn't mean anything? Wake up, man. Honesty never works."_

_Alec Foster wasn't some innocent choir boy. He'd experimented with coke in college… knew the risks and the side effects. Knew that, sadly enough, Bill was probably right – it probably would make the guilt easier to handle. That it would be a… distraction. And so long as it was just this once, where was the harm, right? _

_Besides, Rachel was long gone – out of his life, out of his office, just a memory. Time would pass, and he'd forget all about what they'd done. He'd keep Gillian, he'd behave himself, and he'd never even look at another woman again._

_No harm, no foul._

_Sensing his hesitation, Bill laughed. "If it makes you feel any better, just consider all of this as one last hurrah, alright? Kind of like the bachelor party you never had."_

_Despite the ache in his stomach that tried to warn him he was about to make a huge mistake, Alec moved _toward_ the white powder, rather than _away_ from it. He was anxious to try anything to erase his guilt, short of growing a big enough pair of balls to actually confess his affair. _

_And so in the end, he just closed his eyes, took a big breath for courage, and said, "Bachelor party, huh? God help us both then, because you are one hell of an ugly stripper."_


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: Just wanted to say a quick 'thank you' for everyone still sticking with me. This story has evolved dramatically from what I intended it to be when I started, and I find I'm having a difficult time wrapping my head around Gillian's character unless she's 'with' Cal - either working, kissing, or thinking about him. So bear with me while I transition this thing from the middle to the end, and try - very hard - to do it in a believable way that's in keeping with her character. I'm still fleshing out a lot of the 'why's' about her marriage with Alec, and though it is an interesting process, it's also making me second guess myself a million times. In the end, though, I really do hope you all are enjoying it. **

**And now - after the longest author's note ever - on with chapter 30. :)**

* * *

Right around the time Gillian lost sight of Cal's car in her rear view mirror, she realized that what he'd said about their next… encounter… was riddled with an implication she had not yet considered.

"_I fully intend to make sure we end up somewhere without phones," _he'd said confidently_. "Or television. Or radio, or walkie-talkies, or email, or any kind of outside interference _at fucking all_, and… _and_… just to be on the safe side, neither one of us better be wearing a ring..."_

Without the distraction of his skin beneath her fingertips, the weight of his words became heavier. They became real. So real, in fact, that she literally lost her breath for a few seconds. Because what he'd been _trying_ to tell her was that _next time_, they wouldn't have the excuse of getting "carried away," or of letting their hormones control their destiny. _Next time_, he wanted them to move forward with purpose. With their eyes and hearts both open to the future… no second guesses and no regret. He wanted them to be confident, and strong, and complete.

Together.

And right around the time she pulled into her driveway, Gillian realized that she wouldn't be able to live with herself if things progressed any other way. Because despite all of the crap that she and Alec had been through, she'd never been an adulteress. And she had no intention of becoming one now, with Cal.

He deserved better. They both did.

Gillian parked quickly, relieved to see that Alec wasn't home yet. She wasn't quite ready to face him and still needed to sort out a few lingering issues, not the least of which was how to handle the fact that she _did_ still want to have a child. Very badly, in fact. She wanted to adopt or foster, and she knew either one would be much easier with a partner – both in practice, as well as on paper. Agencies were less likely to work with single parents, and she knew that. And yes, it was ridiculous. She knew that, too. It was absurd and shortsighted and extremely selfish, but…

But they'd already filed all the paperwork. They'd taken the first steps. Phoning now just to revoke everything because their marriage was ending felt downright… heartbreaking. It felt wrong.

In a way, it felt like the loss of a second child. And she just… couldn't go through with it. She'd tried. Honestly, she had. She'd picked up the phone at least a dozen different times, intending to explain that she and Alec simply weren't in the right place in their marriage to consider adoption. She'd had the conversation in her mind but her heart wouldn't accept it. And so she'd never made the call.

Her heart, it seemed, wasn't ready to quit; it wanted to move forward with a different perspective.

_In other words_, Gillian had finally accepted that having a child with Alec Foster wasn't the right thing to do, but she couldn't quite work out how to tell him that she'd changed her mind. About him.

Not about the baby.

'_Hi, Alec – how was your day? Mine was great, thanks for asking. Turns out I'm in love with Cal, he's a fantastic kisser, and this whole adoption process we've been working toward? I think I'm going to fly solo with that from now on. Try to avoid giving my future child a father with a drug addiction and a habit of chasing random women. Fair enough? Oh, and by the way… I want a divorce_.'

No, no – she couldn't play it out like that. Not yet. Certainly not in those words, and not without thinking long and hard about what it would mean to _voluntarily_ become a single parent. After all, she worked long hours. Had interactions with dangerous clients, from time to time. She traveled. All of those things would be problematic and difficult, and… yeah. Selfish.

That pretty much covered it.

Gillian walked through her front door and was greeted by empty, darkened rooms. On any other day, the absolute stillness that surrounded her would've been overwhelming. But instead, she felt comforted by it. She had the memory of Cal's words in her ears, counterbalanced by the dilemma of how to move forward towards a divorce that now seemed imminent, and it was nice to have a few minutes to just think. For herself. By herself. Alone, without being lonely… silent without being scared.

So she dropped her bag by the door, kicked her shoes off on her way to the couch, and decided to take Cal's advice – to stop worrying about everyone else for a change, and learn to listen to her heart.

* * *

Wrapped up on her sofa and overwhelmed by silence – Gillian turned introspective. The scientist in her wanted to dissect everything; emotions, memories, actions, words… all of it. She wanted _action_, rather than _inaction_. To create a sense of control in a situation where none really existed. She wanted… _peace_.

It took only seconds before her thoughts shifted completely to Cal. Of his kiss… his touch… the movement of his body against hers, and the look in his eyes when he finally asked the question that neither one of them had wanted to address.

"_Do you love him, Gill?"_

He'd been the brave one. And the expression he wore – the one that told her he was teetering on the edge of a cliff, and the only thing keeping him tethered to reality was the desperate hope that her answer wouldn't break his heart – nearly killed her.

"_I do love him, but I'm not… I'm not in love with him. Not anymore."_

Leading up to that moment, everything felt like a dream. Cal's lips and tongue melding with hers, his body shifting against her as they both struggled against a torrent of passion that threatened to consume them… the strength of his hands and the depth of his desire… all of it. All of it felt like a dream. Like he'd reached right inside her mind, plucked out everything she wanted, and just… handed it to her.

The question he had not asked, thought? That one haunted her. She'd seen it in his eyes, and she'd felt it in his touch, even as it remained unspoken.

'_Then why do you stay? If you're not in love with him… why do you stay?'_

It was what she asked herself every day. Every single day. It was her life, and her marriage, and still... she struggled to find the truth.

"_Sometimes it's easier to hide from the truth than it is to face it," _she'd told him_._

Was that answer _less_ than what he deserved? Absolutely. It was generic, and vague, and downright hollow, but unfortunately, it was all she'd been ready to give him. If she gave him all of it – all the details, and everything she'd habitually kept hidden – he would've just… _snapped_. He would gone into overprotective overload, driven straight to her house, re-packed her suitcase, and beaten the 'bloody hell' out of Alec on his way out the door.

And it didn't help matters that the small part she _did_ understand sounded absolutely _pitiful_. As awful as it was to admit, Gillian stayed with Alec because she'd _wanted_ to believe him. The apologies, the promises… everything he said, she _wanted_ to believe. And for a while, it worked. They re-connected, they learned how to smile again, and they reveled in the unexpected joy that pregnancy brought. But when her entire world imploded eleven weeks later, safe and predictable Gillian watched the man she _used_ to love blame her for the loss of their child, then run out the door to self-medicate his pain while she hid hers from everyone else.

It was pitiful, and tragic, and weak, and she hated it. All of it. Hated admitting it to herself... felt physically sick at the thought of admitting it to Cal.

Yes, in a matter of months after her miscarriage, she'd gotten so good at hiding the truth from everyone that she actually started to _believe_ it had changed. After all, when Alec told her that he loved her and that he was sorry… he meant it. When he promised to try harder, and to be better, and to get clean for her… he meant that, too. _He did_. Her heart still wanted to believe it, and the science always confirmed it.

_Every single time. _

The trouble was, wanting to change "for her" wasn't the right answer. Alec needed to want it "for himself."

And he didn't.

Which was the root of their biggest problem.

"_I swear to you, Alec – from the bottom of my heart. I can't be your second choice anymore."_

The night she packed her suitcase, Gillian felt like a thousand pound weight had been lifted from her chest. Simply put, she was too damned tired of coming in second-best in the eyes of the man who was supposed to love her. Formality was the only thing that still held them together, and she knew it could be handled with a few phone calls and a few signatures. And even though she ultimately stayed, the weight didn't return right away. Not until that night in the elevator, when Alec's hyperactive mania interrupted her dinner plans with Cal and their staff.

But in the end, it took only a single decision – that angel versus devil, two-shouldered dance which led her to make a deal with one of the most repulsive men she'd ever met – before that thousand pound weight began to shatter again. Ounce by ounce and inch by inch, the force of her own free will shook it free. She wouldn't carry it anymore. She would put her wants and needs ahead of Alec's, and she would find the strength to follow her heart.

_Her heart._

Only three short days had passed since then, but they felt like a lifetime. And any doubts she _might've_ had were banished forever as soon as she felt the warmth of Cal's embrace.

"_You're so busy trying to protect all of us – me, Emily, Alec, and our business – that you've lost sight of what's best for _you_. You've lost sight of the things that _you_ want, love. So tell me. Please. What do you _want_?"_

Gillian had known the answer to that question all the way to her bones. The one she gave him, however, was only a half truth: "_I just want to be happy." _So she talked to fill the silence. She tried to explain her relationship with Alec, and the entire time she was talking, the little voice inside her head was screaming out the rest of her answer and willing him to hear it.

_I just want to be happy…with you. I want to be with you. You make me happy, Cal. It's always been you._

He was her safety net. Her anchor. She trusted him, and she wanted him, and if they took this step – when they took this step – failure was simply not an option. Because she loved him too much to let that happen.

Love_._

It was such a deceptively small word – small in size, but mighty in strength – and this time, as soon as it consciously registered, Gillian lost her breath.

"_You and I, Gill? We're solid. Our friendship… our partnership… it's there. Permanently. And if all the pieces come together, and we are lucky enough to really get a go at this – an honest to goodness, real, genuine chance – then I don't want to start off with any regret… So… we wait."_

Wait.

_As in_, wait to… have sex? Make love? Be together? _As in_… _permanently_ be together? Happy, and in love, and… everything?

Wait.

Slowly but surely, Gillian's heart began to pound. Not with excitement, though. With guilt. Because she was a married woman who _didn't_ love her husband, and she was falling head-over-heels in love with another man. And she couldn't have it both ways. Hell, she didn't _want_ it both ways. In a nutshell, she was falling in love with Cal Lightman for the man that he _was_, and she felt sympathetic love for the man Alec Foster _used to be_.

_Present versus past… conditional, versus unconditional… happiness, versus obligation._

And just like that, as the full weight of her current situation began to feel a bit overwhelming, Gillian Foster began to panic.

It wasn't a headless chicken, hysterical type of panic though, because panicking over something that didn't involve either potential loss of life or serious risk of injury just wasn't her style. No, this was more like a stomach-churning, delayed-reaction, 'I-really-need-some-chocolate-right-now' type of panic that was much more subdued and much easier to hide.

Unless, of course, someone was trained to see it. Like Cal was.

Love.

Gillian's hands began to tremble, and her throat went dry, and every muscle in her body felt as though it were bracing itself for the inevitable. She wanted to move; wanted to do something, just to prove that she was real, and the emotion was real, and it was all so damned… overwhelming… that she felt like one of those cartoon animals whose legs kept running, even though their body held still.

Seconds later, the pacing began. She moved slowly at first, walking a steady path between the coffee table and the staircase, through the foyer and back again, just looking for something – anything – that would allow her to _breathe_ without automatically picturing Cal's face in her mind.

Which didn't work _at all_.

She was walking through the home she shared with Alec, and yet the longer she roamed it, the more she saw Cal. She saw the sofa where they'd slept, the blanket they'd shared, the gifts he'd given her for birthdays and special occasions… "_just because_."

She saw a copy of their business license that was framed and hanging in the study… "_just because_."

She saw handfuls of photographs lined along shelves, bringing life to the rooms that would've otherwise been lifeless. Cal and Emily… Emily and Gillian… Gillian and Cal… holidays and celebrations and everything in between, "_just because_."

Her music collection boasted rare jazz recordings that he'd found and shared. Her pantry held baked beans and a case of his favorite beer, both ready for him at a moment's notice… "_just because_."

And yes, of course there were signs of Alec, too. She saw them. There were photos and trinkets and _stuff_ that belonged to him. But it wasn't… it wasn't '_their'_ stuff. Not anymore.

Not for a very long time.

On her fifth trip to the foyer, Gillian paused at the base of the staircase and looked up. She'd taken those steps a thousand different times, but in that moment, there were only three scenarios replaying themselves in her mind's eye. She saw the first time Alec had carried her up them, back when they'd been newlywed and still had stars in their eyes… the first time Cal had followed along behind her, shuffling and stumbling to the guest room where he'd slept, fitful and pouting, after one too many arguments with Zoe… and the night she'd climbed them for what she'd assumed would be the last time. The night she packed her things intending to leave, and then found Alec on the bathroom floor instead.

They were three separate scenarios from three separate stages of her life: one marked the beginning of a relationship, one marked the middle, and one marked the end. And as the pieces began to fall together and she heard the distinct sound of Alec's car pulling into the driveway, Gillian finally came to terms what she needed to do.


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: Big thank-you for the reviews, messages, and feedback on the story - it's always very much appreciated!** **It's probably self-explanatory, but this is part 2 of the flashback into the early days of Gillian and Alec's marriage. Hope you all enjoy...**

* * *

_On most days, Gillian loved her job. She loved helping people… listening to their problems… feeling like she made a real difference in the world. And on most days, the long hours, headaches, and stress felt worthwhile; like she'd chosen the right career, and everything just… fit._

_But sometimes, all she really wanted was a break. A little peace and quiet. Five, ten, maybe fifteen minutes to herself without someone yelling 'Gillian _this'_ or 'Gillian _that_.'_

'_Can you help me, Gillian? Do you have time to look at this case file, Gillian? Would you mind doing a few extra follow-up reports, Gillian?'_

Ugh_. Her people-pleasing, warm-hearted, overachieving self could rarely say '_no_.'_

_Dinner time had long passed when she finally arrived home. Her feet were swollen, her head was pounding, and all she wanted to do was sink into a hot bath, drink a glass of wine, and relax. And she decided that the _very next person_ who expected her to clean up their mess was going to get a piece of her mind._

_But…_

_Upon walking through the front door, the first thing she noticed was the level of noise coming out of the kitchen. She heard banging, swearing, and random singing… she heard water being sprayed, and drawers being slammed. The pounding in her skull grew more intense almost instantly, and all she could think was that Alec Foster better have a very, _very_ good explanation for why he had – apparently – lost his mind._

_After all, he was rarely home before dark. And even when he _was_, they often ate takeout in the living room, curled up together on the sofa. Pots, pans, and banging noises not required._

_He must've heard the front door close, because he was peeking out from around the kitchen doorway a beat later. A hand towel was flung across his shoulders, and two smears of flour ran down the length of his thighs. He was grinning like a fool, with a look of embarrassed pride on his face as he gestured behind him._

"_Oh good – you're home! I was hoping to keep this a surprise, but I was also hoping not to burn the house down in the process. Suppose you could give me a hand in here? Thought I knew where everything was, but obviously… _I don't_. Tell me, Gill: do we even _own_ a sifter? Because I looked through every cabinet in this place, and I can't find one."_

_A sifter? Seriously?_

_Who was this flour-smeared man, and what had he done with Alec? The "I can barely boil water, but I can order pizza like a champ" Alec? His heart was probably in the right place, but the mess would likely take hours to clean, and Gillian saw visions of her wine-and-warm-bath evening going right down the drain._

_He was back in the kitchen seconds later, saying something about cooling racks and the oven timer. "Think I might've overestimated my domestic abilities," he said. "And I seriously don't understand the difference between a cooling rack and a trivet. Why do we need both? And why do we need _so many_ of both? I mean, the racks are bigger. They can hold twice as much as a trivet, right? So why not…"_

_His voice faded away as she walked into the room and gasped. It was worse than she'd imagined: a sink full of dishes, flour everywhere, eggshells littering the fronts of the cabinets (_how in the world had that happened?_), and every single measuring cup she owned parading down the length of the countertop._

_Alec merely shrugged. "I wanted to surprise you."_

_Gillian gave a snorted laugh that was part exasperation, part genuine humor. "Mission accomplished, then," she quipped._

_He rolled his eyes and inched toward her with a grin. "_Cute_. I'm not talking about the mess, Gill. I'm talking about the _reason_ for the mess."_

_She sighed. "Which is?"_

"_You."_

"_Me?"_

_Alec nodded. "Next week is your birthday. And I just… well, I just wanted to get an early start on celebrating it, that's all. Fancy restaurant, candlelit dinner, ambiance… that definitely has its place. But I wanted to try something new. Something different. Just to show you that I care."_

_God, he could be so… exasperatingly sweet sometimes._ _Moments like this gave her glimpses of the man she'd fallen in love with, rather than the busy, goal oriented, white-collar professional he'd become. Cute, fun, playful Alec was a rare sight these days, and she'd missed it. Very much. _

_And so she smiled, stepping toward him with an outstretched hand that landed softly on his cheek. "You never fail to surprise me, even after all this time," she said. "And if I didn't know better, I'd think you made it look this messy in here on purpose, just so I'll be shocked by whatever comes out of that oven later. Which is pretty tricky, but… pretty sweet, too."_

_He leaned in to her touch and watched her with a playful expression. "Chocolate cake, Gill. Double fudge. With chocolate frosting. And… _and_… there's chocolate ice cream in the freezer, too."_

_She laughed and smiled at him; the mess was already forgotten. "That sounds _fantastic_," she said. "Guess you really do love me, don't you?"_

_She turned away a moment later, just to grab spoons and bowls so they could start working on the ice cream he mentioned. And so she didn't see the brief – but very real – expression of sadness on his face. "With all my heart," he finally answered. "And if it takes the rest of my life to show you just how much you mean to me, then that's fine, because there's no one I'd rather spend it with than you."_

_Gillian was too distracted to hear the underlying tone in his voice; the one that would've told her – if only she'd heard it – that there was more to his sudden interest in cooking than what she realized. Instead, she fussed with the ice cream, and Alec fussed with the cake pan, and when the oven dinged, he placed it inside to bake. By the time he turned around again, she was holding the mixing bowl in one hand, and a clean rubber spatula in the other._

"_What's that for?" he asked. "The pan's already full."_

"_It's flexible, see?" she explained, waggling it in front of his face as she spoke. "Good for scraping down the sides of the bowl." She paused to demonstrate, and came away with a large dollop of batter perched on the end of the utensil. "Wouldn't it be a shame to let this go to waste?"_

_She balanced the spatula in one hand, grabbed a finger-full of batter with the other, and popped it into her mouth with a grin as Alec stared at her, wide-eyed. "I cannot even believe you just did that," he said slowly. Breathily. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were just trying to tease me, just to get even for the mess."_

_Gillian grinned; he was partially correct, but she'd never admit it. Instead, she decided to up the ante._

"_Teasing does have its place," she replied, in the same breathy tone he'd used. Then she swirled her finger through the mixture again and locked her eyes with his. "But trust me: I never play around when it comes to chocolate."_

He_ groaned and _she_ sighed, and she wasn't quite sure how it happened, but both her headache and her irritation were long gone. And that warm bath she'd wanted? Suddenly she had a different image of how to… enjoy it. _

_With a coy smile, she caught another scoop of batter on her finger and held it out toward Alec, circling it in front of his mouth. "Go on," she encouraged. "Try some. I guarantee you won't be able to stop after just one taste."_

_Alec laughed wholeheartedly, and caught her wrist in one strong hand. "Don't I know it, Gill," he answered, leaning closer and closer to her fingertip with each word. "Don't I know it."_

* * *

_Brian._

_His name was Brian Cunningham._

_Or, as Alec liked to call him, 'that bastard who wants to sleep with my wife.'_

_Oh, he hated the guy. With a passion. _As in_, wanted to drive a six inch spike through his forehead and then throw him down a few flights of stairs, just for good measure. Because every single time he stopped by to visit Gillian at work, or to pick her up at the end of the day, there stood good-old Brian: with his eyes on her cleavage and hands on her body. _Literally. On her body_. Every single time._

_It was infuriating._

_Yes, it was a double standard. Alec knew that. Trouble was, he didn't care that he was being a hypocrite. The only thing he cared about was that his wife – his beautiful, charming, polite-to-a-fault wife was just standing there in the middle of her office and letting that guy paw at her. _

_And if that weren't bad enough… she was _smiling_ at him. _Laughing_ with him. Enjoying his company, and his touch, and his… "_friendship_."_

_Slight correction: make it a _nine_ inch spike, and a few _dozen_ flights of stairs._

_Brian Cunningham was older. Shorter. Not much of a physical threat in any way at all. And yes, he was nice enough. He always treated Gill with respect… made her laugh… offered his help. Which made it that much harder to simply stand there, at the other end of the hallway, and silently watch what was happening. Alec didn't want to be painted as the bad guy in Gillian's eyes, but watching another man want her – _in that way_ – was just about to kill him._

_Brian's hand landed on her elbow. Then her shoulder. Then her forearm. Then her hand. Jesus, he might as well have just leaned in and tweaked her breast while he was at it, because obviously… _obviously_… that's what he wanted to do in the first place._

'Just friends.'

_Yeah, right._

_Alec wasn't an idiot. He knew that people who were _'just friends'_ didn't take five, ten, fifteen minutes to say goodnight at the end of a work day. They didn't hug, and they certainly – _certainly_ – didn't kiss each other on the cheek._

_When the hell had _that_ started happening, anyway?_

_Brian kissed Gillian's cheek, and then _Gillian _kissed _his_ cheek, and Alec watched the whole thing unfold as he stood there trying not to self-combust all over the pristine walls of her fancy-schmancy government office building and Cunningham's brand new suit._

Boom_._

_Oh, he was positively _seething_. Literally shaking with anger by the time Gillian finally walked down the hall toward him, and left Brian behind, just watching her leave. Eyes north, asshole. Keep your eyes north!_

"_Everything okay?" she asked him. She was smiling cautiously, fiddling with the strap on her handbag in a way that told him that for some reason, she was just as unsettled as he was. "You look… stressed."_

_Alec managed not to laugh, or swear, or react in any way at all, save for the slight nod he gave her as pressed one arm to the small of her back and steered her away from Cunningham's gaze. "It's nothing, Gill," he lied, thankful she'd stopped reading that stupid book Doctor Lightman had written and that she wasn't able to see right through him. "It's just been a long day, that's all."_

* * *

"_I cannot even _believe_ you're jealous," Gillian fumed. "He's my _friend_, Alec. That's all. And our relationship is perfectly innocent."_

_Hearing her use the term 'relationship' to describe her connection with another man made every hair on the back of Alec's neck stand up in protest. He was livid. _

"_Says the woman who tried to break up with me when I showed her engagement ring to a friend of my own, right?" he retorted. "How convenient. If I couldn't be friends with Rachel Crawford, then why do you get to be friends with this… this _Brian guy_?"_

_Gillian glared at him; she was equally as livid. _

"_Don't you dare go and twist this whole thing around on me," she fumed. "It's not my fault that Rachel got another job, or that you haven't seen her in months. Hell, call her up. Drive her around the city. Meet for coffee if you want. Quite frankly, Alec, I don't care. I. Do. Not. Care._ _Men and women are perfectly capable of being platonic friends, and I know that. I have never tried to make "_that_" into something "_more_" and I don't intend to start now. But what I _do_ expect is the same level of consideration from you. Because this '_Brian guy_' just-so happens to be the best friend I have in that office, and you know it. He's helpful, and kind, and funny, and…"_

_Alec snorted. "Please, tell me more. I could get a pen and paper, if you want. See how long the list gets before you run out of adjectives."_

_She was on her feet instantly, walking around the couch and leaving him sitting there alone with his hypocrisy and his spite. _

"_Why do you have to be such an _ass_?" she said. "I mean, this whole thing works both ways. You have free will, and so do I. When you told me that Rachel was your friend, I believed it. Yes, I was jealous at first – that's normal. That's understandable. But you've lost it, Alec. You've shot right past '_normal'_ and landed with both feet in the realm of crazed lunatic with an ego-complex, and I'm sorry, but I can't handle that. I had enough of the hyper-controlling, testosterone-fueled insanity, when I was young, thanks to what the alcoholism did to my dad. I don't intend to spend my adult years married to a man who behaves similarly, _or_ one who constantly questions my commitment to him."_

_It was the first time Gillian had ever voiced the possibility of ending their marriage, and Alec was totally blindsided. "Is that a threat?" he asked. Waiting. Daring her to tell him that it was._

_Gillian's posture stiffened. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and looked up at him with fire in her eyes, refusing to back down. "Does it need to be?" she said seriously. Telling him in her own roundabout way that he'd just made everything worse._

_And just like that… he crumbled. The knowledge that _he'd_ put that look on her face… that his own issues and guilt-fueled jealousy were at the root of their latest argument… made him feel absolutely awful. Like he didn't deserve to have her in his life at all, much less still be married to her._

"_God damn it, Gill," he said brokenly. "I don't want to fight with you. I don't. But when I see the way he looks at you – when I see the way he _wants_ you – I just… snap. I can't help myself."_

_Alec meant every single word, exactly the way he'd spoken them; and the honesty she heard in his voice _did_ seem to soften the ice between them. Just barely – just a touch – but at least it was something._

_It was a step _forward_, rather than a step back._

_Gillian sighed, loud and long, and he saw the fire in her eyes begin to dim. "I refuse to live my life pinned under your thumb," she said. "And I _know_ you love me, but please. For the sake of my sanity as well as yours. Every now and then, maybe you could try loving me a little less? Because I need to _breathe_, Alec. I need _space_. Not so that I can leave you, but so that I can make my own mistakes… grow my own roots, without constantly being tangled in yours. I'm not perfect. Not by a longshot. But I _do_ love you. And you're just going to have to trust me. Okay?"_

* * *

_Bill Jacobs looked amused. So amused, in fact, that it made Alec wonder whether or not the man was actually his friend at all. Because sometimes he enjoyed it a little too much when other people had a run of bad luck._

"_Well, well… perfect little Gill has an independent streak, does she?" Bill said, trying – but failing – to hide the sarcastic laughter in his voice. "I never would've guessed it, man. So how did you two leave things, then? I mean, obviously you didn't tell her what _really_ happened with Rachel, or why you're so afraid she's going to start doing the horizontal tango with her pal Cunningham on their lunch hour."_

_Smarmy. That was the word he'd been looking for. Jacobs could be really, really smarmy when the mood struck him. But rather than listen to the gut instinct that told him to just pay the tab and leave, Alec simply sighed and fed the guy the information he wanted._

"_She told me I should love her a little less sometimes," he explained. "And then she kissed me on the cheek and walked into the study. That's how we left things. Unsolved. Seems to be our style, lately."_

_Bill's laughter dried up right away, and something much closer to disbelief crossed his face instead. He leaned closer, palms flat on the table as if he needed to ground himself. As if Alec had just sprouted a third eye right in the center of his forehead and he needed to get a better look. "Are you _serious_?"_

"_As a heart attack," Alec quipped. "She said that I was being crazy, then she compared me to her alcoholic father and told me to let her make her own mistakes. And that I needed to trust her."_

"_Well now, isn't that the million dollar question. _Do_ you trust her?"_

_Alec sighed. "For the most part, yeah. I do trust her. But Brian Cunningham? I don't trust _him_ at all. I looked at Rachel exactly like he looks at my Gillian, and we both know how that turned out: I wound up with a heart full of regret, all for just a few minutes of fun."_

"_One affair doesn't make you a villain, Alec," Jacobs countered. "Sadly enough, it makes you normal. Men have needs, right? And when you really stop to think about it, what you did with Rachel wasn't really all _that_ bad._ _So you screwed her twice. Big deal. You used protection. You cared about her. She wasn't some stranger. She was a friend – you never lied about that part. You just didn't… elaborate. So please, do us both a favor and stop feeling so damned awful about it. What's done is done. No point beating yourself up about it now."_

_Reluctantly, Alec nodded in agreement. Bill did have a point, though the logic he used to make it was a bit… twisted. The past was the past, and no matter how much he _wanted_ to change it, he couldn't. "So what do you suggest I do, then?"_

"_Move forward, to bigger and better things," Bill answered. "After all, this town is full of women just like Rachel. Maybe the next time you meet one, you ought to follow Gill's advice. Love your wife a little bit less. That'll make the guilt easier to live with, now won't it?" _

* * *

**A/N: Just a quick note to let you know that the updates will probably be a little slower for the next 2 weeks. I'm going out of town on vacation with my family beginning tomorrow, and between travel and working overtime shifts when I return, I won't be back on a regular writing schedule for a few weeks. I'm aiming at one chapter a week till the chaos passes, rather than 3. Just didn't want anyone to think I'd abandoned this or anything... definitely not! Thanks for reading, and I'll pick this back up with a present day scene between Alec and Gillian in a few days. :)**


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: Wanted to thank everyone for the feedback on the last chapter - I've been traveling / going non-stop for a solid week, and if I didn't personally reply to each one of you, please know it was accidental. Internet has been spotty, even on my phone. The chapters will be slow going for about another week, and then I hope to be back on my regular posting schedule. Thanks for the patience... hope you enjoy the latest installment!**

* * *

"_No, Mr. Foster, I didn't leave a message," she started. "_However_, rest assured that even though it's certainly not my place to meddle in someone else's marriage, I _do_ owe Mrs. Foster the same degree of disclosure that I've given to you. That being said, I think it's very safe to assume that when your wife and I finally _do_ get the chance to speak, it won't really matter how… delicately… I manage to phrase everything. The fact that a birth mother now has to be informed of your drug use and suspicions that your wife is, and I quote, "fucking Cal Lightman" – whoever that might be – will most definitely come as a surprise to her."_

_She ended the call a moment later. There was no goodbye… no pleasantries… nothing but the click of the receiver in his ear, and the overwhelming feeling of dread in his stomach. _

_Understanding that he'd run out of options as well as time, Alec simply gathered up his things and headed for the door, with the phrase '_dead man walking'_ ringing sarcastically through his mind on every single step._

* * *

Gillian was going to kill him.

That was the plain and simple truth, and he knew it. Sure, he might be able to buy himself a little bit of time… come up with a clever, bullshit story that would stall everything… manage to convince Regina Cross to wait a day or two (or ten) before calling Gillian… but in the end, it wouldn't really change much of anything. All the promises he'd made and every good intention he'd had about improving their marriage would all dissolve the very second Gillian found out what he'd done. What he'd _said_. And that he'd most likely just ruined her chances of ever becoming a mother.

First the miscarriage, and now… this. He felt like the biggest bastard in the entire world.

With a heavy heart and a queasy stomach, he grabbed his briefcase off the passenger seat and made the short walk to the front door. Heavy, staccato steps rang loudly in the evening air, and even though it was probably just his guilty conscience playing tricks on him, Alec could've sworn that they sounded foreboding. As if there was absolutely nothing 'good' that would happen to him once he stepped inside his home. As if Gillian would be able to use her genius face-reading skills to magically guess what he'd done, and then hand him his walking papers. Or smother him with a blanket.

Probably the same damn one she'd used with Cal, that night on the sofa.

_Salt, meet wound._

* * *

Silence and darkness were all that greeted him, and instead of calling out to her _– 'Gill, I'm home!'_ – Alec crept into the foyer quietly, so as not to disturb anyone or anything. Internally, he was still panicking. Still trying to decide _how_ and _when_ he'd manage to tell her about the phone call from the adoption agency. But he wanted to be… preemptively discreet. Perhaps find a way to ask her about her little lunch date with Cal first, and then steer the conversation toward his disaster of a phone call. After all, if any of Bill's insinuations _had_ been right, then he wouldn't feel quite as bad about what he'd said. At the very least, he'd play the 'surprise' angle; a bit of a sneak attack that forced Gillian to show her cards first, but let him keep his hand covered for a little while longer.

In theory, it was a workable plan. Not great, but not horrible either. But as luck would have it, Alec only made it a few steps past the front door before catching sight of Gillian curled up on the couch. That's right... _on the couch_. In almost the _same exact position_ as she'd been on that fateful morning when he'd seen her with Cal – draped beneath one blanket that was barely big enough for one adult, let alone two, and smiling peacefully as she slept. And that's when his theory pretty much fell apart.

Call it hypocritical, or narrow-minded, or just plain _wrong_, but that memory still made every hair on the back of Alec's neck stand straight on end. It just… bothered him. _Immensely_. And even though his past indiscretions didn't give him a leg to stand on in the jealousy department, he felt it anyway. Jealousy. Overwhelming jealousy. Because she was _still_ his wife. _His_. _Not Cal's_.

_Uh-oh._

And Just like that, Alec froze. He stopped mid-step, caught at the boundary between the foyer and the living room, literally with one foot suspended in the air, and he just… _froze_. Because he'd had that exact same internal conversation at least thirty times in the last month, but he'd never used that word before. He'd never phrased their relationship… _like_ _that_. Not even to himself.

_Still_.

That word should not have entered the picture.

Gillian was his wife. They were married. They were legally bound together, and 'still' wasn't the type of qualifier he wanted to use to describe what they had. Not now. Not yet. It felt a bit like admitting defeat – like saying, _'Gillian is still married to me, Lightman. It's not your turn yet. It's still mine. So back off. Your turn will come soon enough, alright?'_ – and that was absolutely, without a doubt, the very last thing he wanted to do.

Not because he hated to lose, or take a hit to his pride, or something trivial like that. No, no… he didn't want to use that word (even in his thoughts) because deep down, he did love her. He did. He loved her, and he was trying, and he wanted to show her that he could be what she needed. What she deserved. What she'd always deserved. And that this time, he finally 'got it.' He finally understood that changes he needed to make should come from inside; from within himself. That he needed to want to improve his life because he realized that it was the right thing to do… not because she strong-armed him into it.

She hadn't seen him yet. Hadn't heard him. And standing there in the darkness – physically close to Gillian, but having no idea how to connect – Alec began to see himself from a third person perspective. He saw the man he'd become; selfish and abrasive. Weak and hollow. Arrogant and envious. All that time wasted, wondering how he'd manage to cover his own ass – his own mistakes – without breaking her heart, and as fate would have it… none of that mattered. None of that mattered at all.

Because clearly, he'd already broken it long ago.

In a sense, he'd broken _her_.

And now the question was, did he still have the right to try and put the pieces back together, or… _not_?

* * *

Gillian didn't stir until he began to approach her, and even then, she barely moved. She sat up somewhat straighter, tucked herself further into the corner of the sofa to open up a wider space on the cushions, but beyond that… she remained still. The blanket was drawn across her lap and she clutched it with both hands, looking out into the darkness as if she were lost in thought.

Or waiting for him to break the ice.

And trust him, he had no idea what to say. None. _At all_. But everything was just so damned quiet that it was driving him crazy, and so he just couldn't help himself; he had to try. One of them had to be willing to make the first move.

A deep, shuddering breath caused her to quirk one eyebrow, but she did not look at him. Maybe it was a passive-aggressive thing. Maybe she was trying to make a point; trying to make him over-analyze everything, or 'read' her, or… maybe she was just hoping that he'd walk away. That he'd choose to live in their own version of limbo, rather than try to find a way to move forward together.

Maybe it was one of those things; maybe not. But he took another deep breath for courage, tried to ignore the voice in his head that was telling him – very insistently – that he really needed to think before he spoke, and just said the first thing that popped into his brain.

"Sorry I'm late, Gill," he started. Because genuinely, he was. And he tried like hell to let the honesty 'show' in his voice, just for her.

But either it didn't work, or it wasn't enough, because she didn't respond. Not a word... not a syllable. Nothing.

And so he nervously cleared his throat and began to elaborate, just to fill the silence. "I know I promised to cut back on the hours, so we could spend more time together," he continued – somehow managing to talk way too fast, and way too slow all at the same time, so that he sounded like an absolute moron. "But this promotion… well, you know how it is. If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself, and there's never any rest for the wicked."

_Wicked indeed._

Internally, Alec groaned. He'd known it was an unfortunate word choice even as it was coming out of his mouth, and although Gillian wasn't yet aware of the things he'd said to Regina Cross that would likely send their adoption application straight into the trash, he'd built up enough of a tally of bad deeds that 'wicked' certainly fit. And reminding her of them didn't exactly help his case at all.

He expected fireworks, anger, and arguing. But instead... Gillian simply sighed. She still didn't even turn to _look_ at him. She didn't move, didn't blink, she just _sighed_. And in the stillness that clung around them like a cloak, it sounded every bit as foreboding as his earlier footsteps. It sounded... final.

"I just got here a little while ago myself," she said softly.

Too softly.

_Foreboding, indeed._

Aside from the volume of her voice, the major thing that caught Alec's attention was that she'd chosen the word 'here.' Not home. As in, _"I just got here…"_ rather than, _"I just got home…"_

Maybe he was overreacting. Reading far too much into a single word, and making himself paranoid because of his own guilt. But then again… _maybe not_.

She was still staring off into the distance, squinting her eyes ever so slightly as she spoke, and it took him a few minutes to realize that her attention was focused on something across the room. That she wasn't _staring_ so much as she was… _studying_. Something specific. And that the item in question was sitting on the bookcase near the window.

A pair of halting footsteps finally brought him close enough to see that it was a photograph. A _framed_ photograph, taken at the Group's anniversary party, the year before. In the image, she and Cal stood arm in arm, cheek to cheek, smiling and laughing with their matching expressions and coordinating colors (completely unplanned, or so they claimed), and with happiness practically coming out of their pores.

Gillian loved that photo. She always had. He, on the other hand, hated it. For much the same reasons as he still hated that blanket.

So she studied, and he fretted, and slowly but surely… he began to panic. It wasn't the headless-chicken, raving-lunatic sort of panic, because that would've only made him look foolish. Instead, it was the heart-gripping, _'I-think-my-entire-world-is-about-to-turn-upside-d own-and-I-can't-do-anything-about-it'_ panic that was much more subtle, and much easier to hide.

Unless, of course, someone was trained to see it.

_Like Gillian was._

"Get hung up at work?" he suddenly asked. His voice was too loud and the words were too jumbled, and even though he was already certain of her answer – it was habit by now – he couldn't resist the impulse to ask her anyway. Just to see if she'd veer from the response that had sadly become like a script.

She didn't.

"Just a bit," Gillian answered. She was still staring at that photo… still wrapped in that damn blanket… and he had an urge to jump up and down like a pouty child, just to get her to look at him. _At him_. Not Cal.

"Cal came to see me before he left and we both…"

_Lost track of time, got caught up in a case, needed to review the budget again… Cal, Cal, Cal. It was always Cal._

Sometimes Alec wondered how Gillian could be so blind. How she could work with that man day in and day out and always _claim_ to have no clue about his attraction toward her, even though anyone else could see it from miles away. Just like Bill had.

It was pitiful.

Alec stepped sideways, effectively blocking her view of that photo as he stood directly in front of it. And not because he was trying to be an asshole, but just because he legitimately wanted her full attention. He was there, and Cal was not, and didn't that count for something?

"A case then?" he supplied. Just so she wouldn't have to do it; just so she wouldn't have to try and think of an excuse that neither of them was likely to believe. "A client?"

He watched as her gaze became focused; easily saw the moment when she stopped looking _through_ him, and allowed her eyes to travel up the length of his body until they arrived at his face and locked with his. Strangely enough, she looked… settled. Like she'd finally come to terms with something that she'd been mulling over in her head, and he just wasn't allowed know about it yet.

_Not quite yet._

And that's when it started to hit him that maybe… just maybe… everything that Bill Jacobs had said might not have been so far off. First his hands went cold. Then his knee started to twitch. And his lungs were using up their oxygen supply far too quickly, and he couldn't get fresh air in fast enough. Inhale… exhale… blink… repeat. He was clammy, yet freezing. Nauseous, yet hungry. Hollow, yet overwhelmed with emotion. And then he decided that surely, this is what insanity felt like. Suspicion, and envy, and guilt, all knotted together and ricocheting inside his chest like an oversized boomerang – again, and again, and again until he wanted to scream. To shout at her that he wasn't stupid, and he wasn't blind, and _good God_, she wasn't fooling anyone.

Not anyone.

But he didn't.

He didn't say a single word. He simply stood there – in front of Cal's photograph, in front of the sofa, in front of his wife – and waited for her to break his heart.

In the darkness, Gillian sighed. Deeply. He watched as she sat up even straighter, so that her back was pressed flat into the frame of the sofa, rather than curled into its corner. Then she tightened that God-awful blanket around her lap and hauled it up toward her chin, so that it covered every single inch of her body, save for one hand and everything above her throat. As if it was some kind of protective shield.

In a sense, it felt like… Cal and Gillian, versus Alec. The future, versus the past.

And that's when she finally spoke the few simple words that would hit him right in the stomach, like a ton of bricks.

"No, Alec," she said simply. "It wasn't a case, and it wasn't a client. Not this time."

* * *

**To be continued...**


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N: Just wanted to say thanks again for sticking with me on this story - it's about a billion times longer than I ever expected, and from time to time, I feel like these characters take over my hands and type the chapters themselves. They just keep growing and growing... this latest one is a prime example. It's long. I mean, seriously long. I started writing it and realized there were more loose ends that needed resolving than what I'd expected. That being said, we will finally begin to move toward closure in the next installment. But first... there's a certain drug-using husband that I need to handle. :)**

**Thanks again for reading, guys. It makes my heart happy.**

* * *

_In the darkness, Gillian sighed. Deeply. He watched as she sat up even straighter, so that her back was pressed flat into the frame of the sofa, rather than curled into its corner. Then she tightened that God-awful blanket around her lap and hauled it up toward her chin, so that it covered every single inch of her body, save for one hand and everything above her throat. As if it was some kind of protective shield. _

_In a sense, it felt like… Cal and Gillian, versus Alec. The future, versus the past._

_And that's when she finally spoke the few simple words that would hit him right in the stomach, like a ton of bricks._

"_No, Alec," she said simply. "It wasn't a case, and it wasn't a client. Not this time."_

* * *

Reeling from the truth that Gillian had all but admitted, Alec's throat ran dry. He wasn't surprised, though, because deep down, he knew this was coming. He _knew_ it. He just didn't expect everything to feel so… off… when it finally did; like all the pieces of their marriage were there, jumbled up in front of him, and he couldn't manage to make them _fit_.

They were skewed. Twisted. Upside down, and inside out, and just… yeah. _Off_ pretty much covered it.

As did hypocrite.

Of all the years they'd spent together… after all the horrible, _amoral_ things he'd done to put Gillian's needs last when they should've come first, Alec knew he didn't have any right to feel pain. Or rejection. Or sadness. But he _did_. Because he loved her, and he was trying – _really trying, _as of late – to make their marriage work. And it struck him as… abnormally cruel… to lose her now.

There was a tiny, singular moment when he thought that maybe, just maybe, he was overreacting. Panicking preemptively. Misreading her words, and projecting his guilt onto her out of paranoia. If it wasn't a _case_ that held her up, then maybe it was something else business _related_. A financial issue, perhaps. A problem with payroll, or budget reports, or expense accounts that couldn't wait until morning.

After all, those things weren't completely impossible.

_Right_?

And so he took two more halting steps toward her, looking for a reaction that would make him feel better. A smile, an outstretched hand, a glance… anything. But it didn't come. Gillian didn't move. She just kept right on staring through him and fiddling with the edges of the blanket.

_Uh-oh._

Slowly but surely, he began to understand that his blunder-filled phone call with Regina Cross was the least of his problems. And that this time, he wasn't overreacting _at all_.

"It was work _related_, though. Right Gilly?"

Trust him, Alec had no idea why he said those words. _Those words_, specifically. They sounded insanely stupid – like he was either stubbornly grasping at straws, or had morphed into someone with an IQ just slightly higher than pocket lint. But it was too late to change his mind; they were already having this conversation whether he wanted to or not (_definitely not_), and so he just went with it. As Lightman would've said, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"I know you two can get obsessive about work," he continued, blubbering and floundering and generally sounding as stupid as he felt. "The cases. The lies. The science behind it all. I know things get a bit… intense... whenever you two are involved."

As soon as the words flew out of his mouth, Alec cringed. Because he hadn't meant to sound _like that_. Not yet, anyway. Because wasn't even ready to _think_ about the reality of his wife getting sexual with Cal Lightman, much less come right out and make an accusation it in real, audible words.

Words that she could _hear_. Words that she could then turn right around on him, like some kind of… hypocrite arsenal that was fully loaded and aimed right below his belt, in an attack that he absolutely, completely _deserved_.

_Shit, shit, shit_… he needed to do damage control while he still had the chance. To take the sting out of his words before she felt it. And so he quickly regrouped and tried again.

"I mean, it had to be a case. Right? That's the reason you were stuck there till this late. Right? Looking at video feeds, or re-interviewing someone, or… something. Right?"

Three times. He'd said the word 'right' three times in a span of ten seconds, and it _sounded_ every bit as desperate as it _felt_. Like he was trying to lead Gillian into playing along with him. Hoping she would lie just to protect his feelings, because she always put everyone else's needs ahead of her own, and it had just become… routine.

But it didn't work this time.

Instead, Gillian turned her head toward him and locked her eyes with his. A single tear hung from the corner of her lashes, thick and heavy against them, and just like that _– just like that_ – Alec thought he might vomit. She was crying.

Actually _crying_.

Which could only mean one thing.

"Gillian, listen… I," he tried. He had no idea what to actually say to her, but he knew he needed to say something to try and stall her. To delay the inevitable. But that single tear broke loose and fell, cascading down her cheek as he watched the look in her eye shift from passive acceptance… into action. And when it did, his words were lost.

"No," she said again, a bit more firmly. "It had nothing to do with work. Not this time."

* * *

_Thirty seconds_. That was how long it took before the self-doubt and fear in Alec's gut began to recede, bringing arrogance in their place.

"So then it was… personal," he tried, trying to lull her into an argument just because he could. Because he wanted to make her feel as blindsided as he felt, and every bit as defensive. And so far… it was working. She was white-knuckling that damned blanket like it was a lifeline, and that sight alone made him feel at least ten times worse, all because of the symbolism it brought.

Anger, rejection, frustration, regret… they all pooled beneath the surface of his arrogance, peaking with every inhale and burning on every exhale, until he felt downright dizzy. And as he fought like hell to get a handle on himself, so that he could actually speak to her without sounding like a jealous, raving lunatic, Gillian looked completely composed. So composed, in fact, that the only sound she made was a thin, shallow sigh.

That's all.

It was just a gentle '_woosh'_ of air that didn't seem to fit the moment or the emotion, and it made him envious that she could, apparently, handle everything so damned well. Or at least _pretend_ to handle it. He could barely stand upright, and there she sat looking at him with her wide, teary eyes, and her blanket, and an expression that bordered on pity.

That's right: _pity_. Which was – without question – the very last thing he wanted to see from her.

_Ever_.

Countering her gentle sigh with a harsh one, Alec spoke again. "Tell me, Gill: did he at least have the decency to turn off all those cameras before your little after hours meeting, or did he conveniently forget, just so you guys could make your own private… film?" he said sarcastically.

Nastiness and jealousy were all but dripping from each word, and trust him, whatever reaction he'd _hoped_ to draw out of Gillian – guilt, or remorse, or even anger – didn't come. She was absolutely stoic. And he… was not. No, he was about as far away from stoic as it was possible to get. He was shaky and fidgety and completely transparent – hoping she wouldn't notice how upset he _was_, and yet simultaneously annoyed that she didn't seem to _care_. It was a "lose-lose" situation, and he hated it.

"Since you are a _man_ and not a teenage _boy_," Gillian countered, "I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that." Her voice was steady and soft and so God damned focused that it was driving him insane. As in, put his fist through the wall, pee in a circle around her just to mark 'his territory,' insane. He was a man on the edge, and her infallible… rationality… was only driving him closer to it, inch by inch.

"You are way out of line, Alec. Cal and I are friends, and we've been honest about that from day one. We talk, we joke, and we hug. I adore his daughter, and I'm happy to be a part of his life. That's how it's always _been_, and that's how it always _will be_. So yes, our time together this evening _was_ personal. But there's no need to make it sound so… _wrong_. It doesn't change anything, and it only makes you sound like a giant asshole."

Monologue finished, Gillian sighed again. It was still soft and gentle, but now – now – Alec had become so captivated by what he _saw _on her face, rather than what he _heard_ in her voice, that he barely even noticed it. And so he blinked and squinted, leaning forward to get a better look at her features, and there it was: an emotion so new that it caught him off guard and wound up leveling their playing field in a matter of seconds.

_Guilt_.

That's right – _guilt_.

He'd seen that look at least a hundred different times when he looked in the mirror, but he'd never, _ever_ seen it on her. Not even once. And it taunted him; waved at him like a red flag in the breeze, just daring him to address it.

And so_… he did_.

"Tell me, Gill," he said snidely. "If I ask you about the little lunch date you two had today, does that make me even more of a giant asshole, or… not?"

_Checkmate_.

Deciding that he didn't have much to lose, Alec opted to play his trump card and then fell back to his original plan of putting the focus _onto_ Gillian's relationship with Cal, and _away_ from what he'd told the adoption agency about their marriage. He was trying to share the wealth (and the blame), so to speak.

And it worked like a charm.

Gillian squinted and frowned. Then she shook her head and smoothed the blanket with stiff fingers, looking as though she wanted to crawl _beneath_ the sofa cushion and _away_ from his prying eyes. It was a feeling he knew well, and it was interesting to be on the other side of the fence now. To have the ability to see it from both perspectives.

When she sighed again, the sound was far from gentle. It was heavy and deep, like she was simultaneously relieved and disgusted that they were finally going to have this conversation. "How did you…?" she tried. "I mean, were you _there_? At the diner? Were you there the whole time, and I just… didn't see?"

She was being cautious – careful, yet straightforward – and for that much, he had to give her credit. Especially since he tended to function on a scale of 'ass covering' that rarely ever involved an honest admission of… anything. He lied. He 'spun' the truth to fit the picture he wanted to draw, and Gillian didn't. Not now, and not ever. She simply wasn't that kind of person. No, he'd asked her a direct question – about her lunch with Cal Lightman – and she wasn't trying to deny what they'd done. She was just… hesitant to show all of her cards right away.

_Smart girl._

Changing tactics, Gillian squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. She was done asking questions, and shifted seamlessly to the _'Nothing Happened'_ segment of the conversation that he'd been expecting all along. He knew it well; had pathetically used it dozens of times himself, to insist that '_nothing'_ had happened with Christine, and Andrea, and Sarah, and Rachel. _That_ had always been their pattern: Gillian asked, he lied, she believed him, and life went forward. Habits were formed, roles were played, and he selfishly had never given much of a thought as to how it must've felt to be in her shoes – on the side where he now stood, waiting to hear that 'nothing' had happened with Cal Lightman.

Fate was well and truly kicking him right in the ass, and even though he knew he deserved it – all of it – the nagging, gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him 'something' had most definitely _already_ happened, made him want to stick his finger right in her face and start gloating. To say something childish like, '_Ah-ha, Gill! I caught you!'_

He wanted… to win.

And right around the time that word – _win_ – flickered past his brain and out the other side, Alec realized that she was right. That he really was behaving like a giant asshole. Because… well, if he measured his past mistakes versus her current ones, then maybe – just maybe – it wouldn't look so bad. After all, he didn't know if everything that Jacobs had insinuated was true, or if she and Lightman were still in the 'starry-eyed, idealistic, crush' type of phase. The beginning.

_The easy part._

And besides, this was Gillian. _His_ Gillian. The proverbial 'Good Girl' and devoted wife, and he found it extremely hard to believe that she'd suddenly started undressing her business partner in his office, or sneaking kisses in hers.

Mutual attraction? That much, he could handle. He could learn to accept.

_Action_, on the other hand?

Hypocritical though he knew it was… '_action'_ would be an entirely different beast to tame, because Cal Lightman already meant more to Gillian than all of the Christine's and Rachel's of the world, combined, and once she let him inside – all the way inside, into her heart – then Alec knew he would likely never 'win' her back.

_Translation_? Gillian Foster was not the type of woman who 'slept around.' Casual sex… affairs… flings… those weren't her style. At all. And if things with Cal Lightman had already progressed past business partner, friend, and confidante, then it meant only one thing: that she was in love with him. Meaning head-over-heels, swoon inducing, heartwarming love. The permanent kind.

And just like that, he'd gone from snide, gloating bastard, to heartbroken nausea. It was an absolute roller coaster ride, and all he wanted to do was make it _stop_.

With his arrogance almost fully deflated, Alec shook his head. "It wasn't me, Gill. I wasn't at the diner today, but a friend was."

Gillian squinted, and he could practically see the wheels turning in her head, trying to figure out exactly which friend he meant. Funny. It was a short list. She should've guessed it right away.

"A friend?" she repeated, in such a way that the word sounded heavy and foreign on her tongue. "Was it anyone I know, then?"

She didn't sound as though she were angry, just as if she wanted to… read him. To dig out the truth before he had the chance to provide it. It was a true 'Lightman Move' if he'd ever seen one, but by now it was just second nature to her.

Belatedly, Alec wondered why he or any of the rest of them – Cal, Zoe, or Gillian herself had ever believed that their insane "Line" was infallible. After all, he and Rachel Crawford pioneered that angle long before Gillian ever mentioned using it with The Lightman Group, and their attempt had crashed and burned spectacularly, right in the backseat of the car.

_Twice_.

Alec sighed, meeting her gaze with an expression that could only be described as resignation. "Yes," he answered. "You know him, Gill. And when he called me this afternoon…"

"_He_," she suddenly interrupted. Fire flared behind her eyes, and she spoke the word not as a question, but as a realization instead. "Let me guess: Bill Jacobs. He's the 'friend' who saw me with Cal this afternoon, and instead of behaving like a mature, rational, reasonable _adult_, he filled your head with all kinds of convenient details, then left you shocked and spinning in your office while he just hung up the phone, like an innocent little lamb. Tell me, Alec: does that just about cover it?"

Right around the time that Gillian spoke the words 'shocked and spinning,' Alec began to feel lightheaded. Everything she said was so scarily accurate that his knees began to shake, and his head began to swim, and finally – finally – he stumbled a few feet away from where he still stood in front of her (near that God-awful picture she loved so dearly), and dropped into an armchair with a sad sounding sigh.

_Son of a bitch._

Because words refused to form, Alec simply nodded. Yes, it was Jacobs. And yes, that did 'just about cover it.' And last but certainly not least… yes, he felt like an idiot. Like he'd been totally played.

But before his brain could spiral any further down the path of a thousand questions, Gillian interrupted him with a sarcastic laugh. "That bastard would've happily raped me a few nights ago, and now just because he hasn't gotten his way, he turned into a scorned, immature little boy hell-bent on revenge. Why am I _not_ surprised?"

* * *

The list of all the possible things that Alec could have heard from Gillian – that she was in love with Cal, or that she was leaving him for Cal, or that she'd already slept with Cal – paled in comparison to the words she actually said. To the _one_, _specific_, _game-changing_ word she actually said. The one that hit him square in the stomach, then dropped lower to kick him in the balls with the force of a hundred steel-toed boots and left him with an odd combination of nausea, anger, and overwhelming bitterness.

Rape.

It made him want to claw out his eardrums, in an asinine attempt to erase it from reality just so they didn't have to handle the fallout. His friend – or at least, the man he'd always _considered_ to be his friend – had, apparently, tried to rape his wife just a few nights ago, and…

_Wait a minute._

'A few nights ago.'

_That party_ had happened a few nights ago. The party to which Cal Lightman had specifically _not_ been invited. The party to which his lovely Gillian had worn a stunning black dress, played the role of dutiful hostess and offered Bill Jacobs a room-by-room private tour of their home.

_Oh. Shit._

Alec paled. Realization after realization began to wash over him – not the least of which was the fact that he was a jackass. A world class, title winning, best-in-show jackass, and the salt in the wound was the fact that he alone had insisted on Cal's absence. Because even though he practically _hated_ that arrogant British prick, there was no denying the fact that Lightman would've never, _ever_ let Bill Jacobs anywhere near his Gillian. Simply put, the phrase 'that bastard would've happily raped me,' would've been null and void if Cal had been present, because he would've ripped the man apart limb by testosterone-filled limb, rather than allow him to hurt her.

_Salt in the wound, indeed._

Alec felt absolutely gutted. He didn't even want to _think_ about how she'd been forced to handle things with Bill, and the realization that it was all because of him – because of his insistence that Lightman stay _away_ from his self-serving party and upper-class… "friends"… made him gag.

Literally.

He slumped forward in his seat, put his elbows on his knees and hung his head in his hands, and then he dry-heaved into both clammy palms, like a helpless little boy. Broken, sad, and overwhelmingly alone.

Try as he might, he couldn't get the image of that word out of his head, or out of his heart, and he had no idea – none at all – how to move past it. _Would've_. She'd used the word '_would've_.' Which meant that _it_ hadn't… it hadn't _actually_ happened. Right? Not completely? Not in… _that way_? And so that was good news. Wasn't it?

_Oh fuck_, he didn't have a clue what to say. Or do. Or _think_, aside from the overwhelming impulse to make Bill Jacobs suffer. Gillian wasn't even reacting all that much; she was still stoic – not really crying, and not really dry-eyed, either. She was stuck in the middle, walking a tightrope between sadness and anger in a way that made everything around them feel vibrant and alive and overwhelming.

And dangerous.

Out of nowhere, there was a tiny voice in the back of Alec's mind that told him to quit while he was ahead. To try and hug her, or hold her, or apologize, or anything short of trying to push the issue. That he should not try to make "this" into a conversation. Or an argument. But in the end… he ignored it.

_Dangerous, indeed._

"Rape, Gillian?" he said stupidly. As if he'd never heard the word before, and he was still trying to figure out its definition. "You mean… he actually tried to _force_ you…"

Gillian looked as though she wanted to hurt him, for being stupid enough to actually ask for clarification. God, he was such an idiot. An idiot, a heartless bastard… the list was long and shameful.

"Yes," she spat. "Yes, Alec, that's exactly what I mean. The man stripped half naked, said that the fear on my face turned him on even more, and then…"

Oh. Dear. God. He couldn't take it; not another word, not another syllable… nothing. And so he gagged again and said, "No. _Stop_. Please, Gill. I can't… I mean, I don't know what you want me to _say_, alright? Or how I'm supposed to handle this. At all. I just… I just _can't_."

* * *

Ten minutes.

That was how long Alec sat there, silent and sick as he waited for his body to cooperate with his brain long enough to actually speak to her. Ten long, awkward minutes that ticked by with overwhelming slowness as he mentally kept time with the pulse of his watch.

And then when he finally felt he could manage a few words… he botched the entire sentence by shoving both feet into his mouth ankle-deep as he spoke them.

"You said… you said 'would've.' Right? So you turned him down, then? Persuaded him to change his mind? Well, good for you, Gilly. I knew you weren't that kind of woman."

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

No, he didn't realize how patronizing and ridiculous he sounded. His mind wasn't working in that capacity yet; it was still stuck a few pages back, wondering when he should have realized that Bill Jacobs was a creepy sack of shit, rather than a friend, and – as if that weren't enough – just how quickly Lightman would've realized it instead.

True to form, Gillian tried to stop him. She tried to interrupt his insanity before it spiraled any further out of control, but it was too late. That ship had sailed. His world-class, title-winning jackass-ery simply could not be stopped, and so he said – without so much as blinking an eye, let alone realizing that he was about to make everything a hundred times worse – "But why on earth would Bill need to "get even" just for that? He can barely keep it in his pants, and I know of at least a dozen other women who have turned him down in the last six months alone. So what makes you so special?"

_Three… two… one…_

Just like that, the full weight of what he'd just said finally washed over Alec at exactly the same time that Gillian's well-intentioned sympathy flew out the window and he realized that the phrase "a hundred times worse" was, quite possibly, and understatement.

_She. Was. Livid._

And rightfully so, of course.

Gillian fisted both hands in her blanket and set her mouth in a straight, firm line. The only color in her face at all was the deep, rich tone of her eyes, which looked more beautiful than he'd seen them in ages. How in the world was that even possible?

"Ah, Alec," she spat. "You've always had such a romantic way with words. Why, it's absolutely _shocking_ that we've wound up here, broken apart and bitter, after all these years."

To his credit, Alec looked – and felt – appropriately shamed. "You know I didn't mean it like that," he said sincerely. "I love you, Gill. I do. And the last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you."

He meant every single word sincerely, but no matter how much he tried to let it show… no matter how much remorse he allowed her to see… Gillian was unmoved. The phrase "Too little, too late," came to mind immediately. Simply put, years and years of deceit, adultery, and broken promises could never be undone with a few pretty sentences or heartfelt apologies.

It was over. He could already see the writing on the wall, and the truth of it ran through his veins like ice. Cold, unforgiving reality was a real bitch.

He was seconds away from giving her another (likely useless) apology, when Gillian did the very last thing he expected: she laughed. It was deep, and sarcastic, and raw… so very much _unlike_ Gillian and _exactly_ like Cal that it made him shudder. An actual shudder, which ran from head to toe and caused gooseflesh to trail slowly up the length of both arms. It was absolutely _foreign_.

"Tell me, Alec, do you even _understand_ what a hypocrite you are?" she asked rhetorically. "Or is it an entirely new concept for you?"

Yes, rhetorically. As in, she didn't actually _want_ him to reply. But Alec being Alec, he couldn't help himself. His idiocy was hardwired.

"Meaning what, exactly?" he tried. "Come on, Gilly. There's not much point being shy now, is there? So go ahead. Take the gloves off. If there's something you'd like to say to me, then please… be mature enough to say it to my face, rather than run behind my back and get your good, personal 'friend' Cal to help analyze me to death. Alright?"

_Oh Jesus_, he'd used air quotes around the word 'friend,' and now he didn't know what was worse: the angry look of fire he'd seen in her eyes a few moments earlier, or this: the complete and total lack of emotion that she now showed. Apathy, at its finest. She'd gone back to staring through him, rather than at him, and it made him feel… invisible.

It was, quite frankly, the worst moment of his entire life. Like every insanely bad decision he'd made had all led him there – to that moment; to culminate in a mistake so unforgivably intolerable that he might as well have dropped a bomb right into the center of the room. _Boom_. The fallout was irreparable.

Gillian laughed. Again. "Meaning that it's all well and good to stand there in judgment of your 'friend's' (_more air quotes… he deserved them_) inability to "keep it in his pants," when I can name _at least_ four women that you've slept with since we said our vows. Based on your logic, I suppose all of them must've been more… _special_… to you than I was, too, right? At least for five or ten minutes."

Slight correction: 'irreparable' was an understatement.

Alec Foster felt _leveled_. Absolutely leveled, to the point that he doubted his own ability to stand, much less walk out of the room away from her, with his head hanging down and his tail between his legs. No, no… instead, all he was able to do was breathe. Inhale, exhale… then again, and again, until finally – finally – he dared ask a single question.

"How did you…?" he tried. 'Tried' being the operative word, because truly… he couldn't finish. He was ashamed, and heartbroken; confused and sad. And utterly, utterly ashamed of himself.

"I'm not an idiot, that's how," she snapped. "_I_ am not an idiot, and _you_, Alec, are not as discreet as you think you are. You never have been."

Leveled. Yes, that was… quite fitting, indeed.

"Then you knew?" he breathed, still suffering from a combination of shock and embarrassment that Gillian had, apparently, known nearly all of his dirty little secrets since he first began to keep them. "This whole time? You _knew_, and you still… _stayed_? With _me_? Why in the _world_ would you do that, when you've always deserved so much… _more_?"

And just like that, she stopped looking through him, and started looking at him again. "Trust me, Alec. I've asked myself that very same question at least a thousand different times."

It was such an odd feeling; as if the weight of the entire world had been shrunken down to nothingness with just a few simple words. All of it – the lies, the deceit, the battles he'd fought (_no, correction: the battles _they_ had fought_) – slipped away like grains of sand, lost and forgotten as the tide changed around them. It all shifted from past, to present, to future, right before his eyes.

He wasn't even sure he had the right to _look_ at her anymore.

"Did you ever find an answer?"

Finally dropping one hand away from her blanket, Alec watched silently as she raised it to the corner of one eye to catch a lone tear that lingered there. "In a sense," she said quietly. "I _did_ find an answer, Alec. Trouble is… I found an answer to the one question I was always afraid to ask, until today."

If he hadn't already been seated, the dizziness that suddenly hit him would've caused Alec to topple over, until he folded like crinkled paper at her feet. Everything he'd feared about her relationship with Lightman suddenly knotted together with everything he'd _known_ it had already become, until the truth behind his earlier logic – the one that spoke of love in the head-over-heels, swoon inducing, permanent sense – felt achingly accurate. She might not have had the courage to ask herself that question until today, but the emotion behind it? The love behind it? Now it all made sense. He saw it progressing as clearly as crystal – blooming from partnership to friendship to more, all before his eyes.

And he saw the key, too. The one, magic '_key'_ that made Gillian's relationship with Cal Lightman simply… _click_… even as their marriage crumbled. Trust. Faith. Devotion. _That_ was where the magic lived. Where it grew. Cal gave her freedom, and support, and unconditional love… while Alec gave her lies, and deceit, and heartbreaking regret. In a nutshell, he gave her every reason to distrust him; to think that every single word that came out of his mouth was an absolute lie.

Game over.

Turns out he'd lost it a long, long time ago.

"You're in love with him, aren't you?"

Where that particular question had come from, he'd never know. One minute it was in his head, and the next… _poof_. There it was, hanging between them like a pink elephant with a neon sign.

And to her credit, Gillian tried to be discreet. She sighed. She shifted. She did everything short of getting up and actually leaving the room, but in the end – in the end – she finally answered.

"Yes, Alec. I am."


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N: For the record, you guys are awesome. I appreciate all the feedback and messages - and some of them included thoughts / angles that I hadn't considered yet (thank you, Cee!). Many thanks for the kind words! Hope you all enjoy this chapter, and I'll try to be quicker with the updates again, now that vacation time has passed. **

**This chapter takes place immediately following the previous one; Gill and Alec are still having the same conversation. I've switched to her point of view for this installment, though. Thanks for reading!**

* * *

"_You're in love with him, aren't you?" _

_Where that particular question had come from, he'd never know. One minute it was in his head, and the next… _poof_. There it was, hanging between them like a pink elephant with a neon sign. _

_And to her credit, Gillian tried to be discreet. She sighed. She shifted. She did everything short of getting up and actually leaving the room, but in the end – in the end – she finally answered._

"_Yes, Alec. I am."_

* * *

"Yes, Alec. I am."

As soon as the words were spoken, an overwhelming sense of relief began to fill Gillian's body. It started at her fingertips – just a tingly, fluttery wisp of emotion that quickly traveled up her arms and down her spine, warming every limb and every muscle until she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she'd made the right decision by telling the truth. Just four short syllables, and it felt as though a thousand pound weight had been lifted from her chest. She felt… _peace_.

Alec, however, looked miserable.

One hand covered his mouth and the other was draped protectively across his chest, as he studied her from behind lids that were heavy with emotion and spotted with tears. He took shallow, shuddering breaths that lingered in the air like sad confetti… in through his nose and out again… and his complexion shifted from clammy and pale, to heartsick red in a matter of seconds.

He looked… _leveled_.

And for a few seconds – just a few – Gillian wondered if he'd actually heard her at all. Truth was, Cal Lightman had been the bane of Alec's existence for years, and it was almost impossible to think that he was just going to accept her news. Graciously. Silently. Just sit there and let her speak it.

_No, no_… that certainly wasn't his style _at all_, because Alec Foster did 'silent' just about as well as Cal Lightman did 'passive.' It simply didn't happen.

_Ever_.

Slowly, Gillian peeled the blanket away from her lap. She draped it across the back of the sofa and sat forward on the edge of the cushion, just watching him. Trying to anticipate what he would do next; to 'read' what move – if any – he was going to make.

In her _gut_ – in the practical, sensible side of her personality – she expected fireworks. Tears and regret… words shouted in anger… maybe even fragments of rage and disappointment flung in a dozen different directions all at once. And in her _heart_ – in the over-exaggerated, yet somehow true-to-life daydream that often played itself out in her mind's eye, whenever the emotions got too heavy to bear – she expected quite the opposite. A quiet apology, or a plea for another chance.

Trouble was, none of those things – none of those _fantasies_ – matched the reality that she actually got. Alec didn't shout. He didn't plead. He didn't try to change her mind, or argue that she was being impulsive, or retaliate against _anyone_ in _any way_ at all.

He just… sat there_, _looking like a broken mess of a man; a shell of someone she had once loved with all her heart, in much the same way that she now loved Cal.

And trust her, as soon as those words ran through her mind – those words, specifically, where she made the comparison between her love for each man – Gillian shuddered. Because that wasn't accurate _at all_. Cal and Alec had their similarities, yes. They were both stubborn, and proud, and even arrogant from time to time. They both had demons, and they'd both made mistakes. They'd both loved her, in their own ways. But for the most part, that was where the similarities ended: with love.

Because Alec's was conditional, and Cal's was not.

Funny… she felt more fulfilled and more deeply loved by a man who'd never actually _spoken_ the words to her, than by a man who'd vowed them in front of hundreds of witnesses. And she saw it all so clearly now. For weeks… months… maybe even _years_, they'd been caught in a symbolic balancing act between past and present, friendship and marriage, and now it was over. It was settled.

Past, present, future… all the qualifiers fell away, and all she saw – all she felt – was truth. And based on the hollow, dejected look on his face, she knew that Alec felt it, too.

With his eyes never once wavering from hers, Gillian easily saw the moment when it all just… 'clicked.' When he knew, without question, that there would be no more second chances. She saw him sigh heavily; saw his hands twine together and clench, until the knuckles turned white and the veins strained against his skin. In another lifetime, she would've reached out to touch him. To offer comfort or friendship.

But not in this one.

Alec sighed deeply, his shoulders shaking under the weight of his breath as he sat across from her. "I know the last thing you want to hear right now is another apology, Gill," he started. "But for better or worse, I'm going to give you one anyway. From the bottom of my heart. Alright?"

When he paused, her eyes fell to the fourth finger of his left hand – right at the spot where the gold tone of his wedding band stood out against the soft freckling of his skin. She wondered how long he'd wait before taking it off. Hours… days… weeks. Maybe longer. And then she wondered how many times he'd _temporarily_ removed it in the past, when the convenience of a forgotten wife outweighed obligation, and his surging sex drive dwarfed morality.

"Part of me has always been afraid it would come to this," he continued. "That you'd finally wake up and realize what a bastard I am, and how much better you deserve to be treated. That you'd find someone who'd move mountains to make you happy. Lightman would. He will. I know it. And I'm sorry that I wasn't able to be what you needed; that I failed both of us, time and time again. I swear, I never meant to hurt you. I never did it intentionally. And if I could take it all back – all the drugs and the lies, every mistake and every broken promise, then I would. In a second. But I can't. I can't do anything, now, except… walk away."

If she'd been listening _– really, truly listening_ – to every word he said, Gillian would've known that Alec was being sincere. But she'd gotten distracted right around the time he said 'intentionally,' and visions of women named Rachel, Andrea, Sarah, and Christine began to swim in front of his sincerity, until they clouded everything he said with a sharp, bitter edge.

'Walk away.' How convenient that he could phrase it in those terms when it came to their marriage, but not when it came to his cheap, temporary affairs.

How… _hollow_.

"Gillian…?" he tried, once he realized that she'd gone back to looking _through_ him, rather than _at_ him. "Did you hear me? I said that I was sorry. And I said..."

His voice had dropped so low that it was barely audible; as if even he realized that his words were pointless. Too little, too late. And Gillian decided it was very fitting that a man who had spent the majority of their marriage as an arrogant, egotistical playboy, was now nothing more than a lonely shell she barely recognized anymore. A veritable stranger.

Rachel… Andrea… Sarah… Christine… each one of those women had come _into_ and _out of_ their lives – their marriage – and shaped it into _this_: an unrecognizable 'thing' that was a shadow of what it had once originally been. Gillian felt a wave of emotion suddenly bubble up inside her (part anger, part pity, and part relief), until it threatened to spill over the edges of her carefully constructed 'wall' at any second. And in that moment, there was only a single thought in her brain. Correction: a single _sentence_. One which would singlehandedly lift the discarded fragments of that thousand pound weight – the one that had been sitting squarely on her chest for so long – and scatter them like dust in the wind.

"Alec," she said confidently, "I want a divorce."

* * *

In the inevitable silence that followed, Gillian could've sworn that she saw him cry. It wasn't much. It wasn't dramatic or desperate or anything more than a single tear or two. But it was enough to remind her that Alec _had_ really loved her. Deep down, beneath all the demons and all the baggage. Past the mistakes, and beyond the pain. And it was _something_; a silent acknowledgment that she hadn't been _entirely_ wrong to wait. To give him more chances – and more time – than he'd ever deserved.

So she breathed and he blinked (trying, but ultimately failing, to mask the second tear that slipped its way down his cheek), and they sat together in the darkness of their living room for what would almost certainly be the last time. Funny how most of her anger had melted away. In a sense, it felt like closure. Like _peace_.

Already certain of her answer, Alec couldn't help but ask one final question. "Isn't there anything I can do?"

With the barest hint of a sigh, Gillian nodded. "Yes," she answered simply. "Don't contest it. Alright? When you get the paperwork… when it's all sitting there in front of you, in black and white, just sign it. You say you love me, Alec. And if you do – if you _really_ mean that – then you can love me enough to let me go."

* * *

An hour later, he was packed. Two suitcases held most of his clothing, and Gillian stood in the doorway, watching silently as he hoisted them into the trunk. Everything else… all of the random 'things' that filled drawers and lined shelves – all of the leftover fragments of a life they'd started together, and would now finish separately – would wait. They didn't seem important anymore.

Alec took a deep breath; in through his nose and out through his mouth, gripping the driver's side door as he lingered beside it. He watched her intently, somehow caught between his need for closure, and the realization that it might never come.

"Gilly, I…" he started.

But she didn't let him finish.

Instead, she took one step backward. She ducked behind the front door far enough that her body was partially shielded by shadow and screen, while staying close enough for him to see her expression. It was calm; serene. Somewhat sympathetic, bust mostly… relieved.

Just relieved.

"It's Gillian, now," she gently corrected. And then she shrugged, unable to hide the tiny remnants of pity that somehow wove their way across her features and into her voice. "It's time to face the facts, Alec. I'm not your 'Gilly' anymore."


	35. Chapter 35

**A/N: Remember when I said there would be a total of 3 flashbacks? Well… I was wrong. Because once this chapter hit over 7,000 words, I realized I'd lost my mind and needed to split it into 2 parts. (They both have Callian, though, so please don't throw anything too heavy at me.) Just to jog everyone's memory, the opening bit here is taken from chapter 31, where we all met Gillian's friend Brian Cunningham. Now I'm about to tie up that particular loose end…**

**Fair warning: there are a few spots of foul language in this chapter – almost all of them coming from Alec (sorry, but since it's a flashback, he pretty much wrote himself into it) including one f-bomb. And there's one short M-rated section, though once again, it's probably not with the characters you'd expect.**

**Thanks for reading, guys! Enjoy!**

* * *

Alec wasn't an idiot. He knew that people who were '_just friends' _didn't take five, ten, fifteen minutes to say goodnight at the end of a work day. They didn't hug, and they certainly – _certainly_ – didn't kiss each other on the cheek.

When the hell had that started happening, anyway?

Brian kissed Gillian's cheek, and then _she_ kissed his cheek, and Alec watched the whole thing unfold as he stood there trying not to self-combust all over the pristine walls of Gillian's fancy-schmancy government office building and Cunningham's brand new suit.

_Boom._

* * *

_Early retirement._

_That was the explanation Gillian had been given – and the one she hadn't believed _at all_. Because she knew better. She knew it was a nice, generic, ridiculously governmental way of saying that Brian Cunningham had, for all intents and purposes, been fired. Just tossed right out the door on his ass, thanks to his hardwired tendency of being overly… _curious_… as of late, and always unwilling to back down from a challenge._

_The translation? _

_Although Cunningham had been quite good at his job, he was horrible at respecting boundaries. Seems he'd grown tired of playing by the rules – of being a passive little marching ant who did _what_ he was told and _when_; who asked "How high?" when those in authority told him to jump. And instead, he'd gotten loud. Antsy. Had turned from a mild-mannered, cookie-cutter suit, into a cog in Washington's bureaucratic wheel who'd been… handled. Swiftly. And with as little grace as possible._

_As for Gillian? Well… she'd taken the entire situation about as well anyone could've expected. Which was – in a word – _badly_._

_While Alec was busy gloating over the fact that his wife would no longer be sharing hugs or corner-of-the-mouth kisses with another man, _she'd_ turned downright bitter. Angry. She scowled and second-guessed the motives of every person in her office, hoping to find '_The One'_ who'd been instrumental in ousting her friend. She'd grown… cold. Unforgiving. _

Intense_._

_Or at least, that's how things went for the first few weeks. Silent treatment and suspicion… snippy, one-sided conversations that always left him feeling like the bad guy… eating dinner in separate rooms, and wondering how in the world he was going to bridge the gap that was forming between them. _

_And then right around the time it all became an odd sort of "normal" – when Alec thought he'd finally come to terms with the new Gillian – she changed again. Smiles replaced scowls, and laughter replaced silence. She slept soundly; didn't pick fights, or see her co-workers as enemies. She kissed his cheek, and held his hand, and curled against his chest at night in that way he'd always loved. _

_She became Gillian again – _his Gillian_. And he was so glad to have her back that he just… went with it. He didn't ask questions. He didn't even _think_ to ask them. Instead, he stupidly took everything she _said_ and everything she _did_ at face value, breathed a sigh of relief, and moved forward._

_The key word, however, was 'stupidly.' Because it wasn't until sometime around week number two – when she started humming melodies under her breath and peppering strange words into random sentences – that Alec couldn't ignore the changes any longer. _

_They were sitting on opposite ends of the sofa with a popcorn bowl between them, watching a college basketball game (_Gill's choice, not his_) and sipping their drinks, when – out of nowhere – he heard it. _That word._ That oddball, foreign, '_where-in-the-hell-did-she-get-that?_' word that crawled up the back of his neck, rattled around inside his brain, and shook his common sense loose. _

_It was… unnerving._

"_Can you believe this guy?" she started. She was waving one hand at the screen and giving the evil eye to the man near half-court who'd just blown the whistle. "Who in their right mind decided to make him a ref, anyway? Bloody blind idiot couldn't see a herd of elephants if it came marching through that gym."_

_That's right: she said bloody. She'd used it with proper British conviction and everything. And in his gut, Alec knew something was… _off_. Because that wasn't the kind of thing that just happened randomly; a person didn't develop an affinity for foreign curses just because they were bored. No, no… she'd heard it somewhere. Recently. And so he turned toward her with a look that was half annoyance and half curiosity, and just waited to see if she'd do it again._

She did.

_That's right. His wife – a woman who never watched BBC and rarely ever swore at all, unless they were having sex – made a second gesture at the poor striped-shirted bastard and said, "They ought to haul that tosser off the court right now, and find someone who actually knows his way around the game."_

_Five seconds. That was how long it took for a cold chill to run down the length of Alec's body – from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Because he wasn't blind, and he wasn't an idiot. _Two_ British swears in the span of _two_ minutes could _not_ be a coincidence. It just couldn't. The lovely Doctor Gillian Foster simply could _not_ spend weeks playing out some sort of depression-induced emotional blockade, and then turn into a smiling, humming, British swear-word-using motor mouth without some kind of explanation._

_That noise Alec heard way back in the distance? The one that made his fleeting cold chill recharge and circle back up his body a few times, just for good measure?_

_It was the rustle of a single red flag; one that appeared out of nowhere, stood at attention, and began to wave at him proudly. _

_Under the weight of his stare, Gillian turned toward him and shrugged. "What?" she said simply. "It was a bad call, alright? And besides, you _know_ how I get with basketball. Don't look so surprised."_

_The word 'surprised' was definitely an understatement, because it just didn't fit. It didn't match his mood at all. Confused… suspicious… paranoid… unsettled… any of those would've been better. Alec felt as though everything was out of focus, and if he squinted just a little bit tighter, then the pieces would align._

_And so he blinked at her, in an over-exaggerated, 'clear the cobwebs' kind of way, and said, "_Bloody_, Gill? Really? Don't think I've ever heard you use that one before. Where'd you get that, anyway?"_

Three… two… one…

_Alec Foster knew almost nothing about basketball, but even _he_ could see that the ref had just blown another call – one that let the opposing team (which Gillian flat-out _hated_) drive up the court for an easy layup. And when she saw it, she didn't say a single word. Instead, as his innocent question hung in the air between them, she started… _to blush_._

_Which was interesting, because it wasn't the type of blush that said, '_Whoops! I just completely lost my cool over a basketball game, and now I feel silly_.' Not at all. No, it was the type of blush that caused a _second_ red flag to start waving in the background, because he knew – _without question_ – that it stemmed from something personal._

_From _someone_ personal._

_Caught between her need for honesty and the blooming tension between them, Gillian shrugged again. "It's just a word, Alec. No big deal. Right?"_

So she_ blushed, and _he_ squinted, while two very large red flags waved in the background of his mind's eye; tall and proud and mockingly bright. To Alec, the phrase _'just a word' _sounded pretty close to a cop-out, and he didn't like it at all. Gillian was clearly avoiding something, and the longer they sat there, the more it bothered him._

"_What the hell _is_ a '_tosser_,' anyway?" he finally asked. "Is that like 'bastard' or something? Enlighten me. Because yeah, I know it's just a word. Just like '_bloody_.' But there's something different about you tonight. Something strange. And I'd really like to know where you heard it."_

_Trust him, Alec was suspicious – not angry. Gillian was a grown woman, and she could pretty much say whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, without his approval. That wasn't the point. But that blush? The one that was still flaring across her cheekbones and dancing along the edges of her oddly out-of-place grin? It called to him, and demanded an answer._

_The one she gave him, however, wasn't anything close to what he expected._

"_I… can't tell you," she said. _

_And that – _right there_ – was the point at which they switched places. All the suspicious second guessing she'd done in the days and weeks since Brian Cunningham's "early retirement"… all the tension and irritation that she'd overcome… the sum total of it landed right in Alec Foster's lap with the force of a _dozen_ waving red flags. Because now, he could actually _see_ the guilt behind her eyes. And it. Was. Blinding._

"_Maybe not, Gill," he sighed, feeling more defeated than he cared to admit. "Maybe you really _can't_ tell me. But that look on your face says that you definitely _wish_ you could."_

* * *

_It was crazy._

_Reckless._

_Irresponsible, and foolish, and completely insane. All of it. Every word coming out of his mouth – beginning with "You're fired," and ending with "So then quit, yeah?" – was so unpredictably irrational that it caused all the hairs on the back of her neck to stand straight on end. _And then,_ (as if that weren't enough) she giggled. A whole body, shoulder-shaking belly laugh that lasted three full minutes and left her breathless in front of him. _

Him_… with his wrinkled oxford shirt, and his slouching posture, and his impish grin that told her he was dead serious._

_Oh, it was like her own version of T_

_he Twilight Zone, starring one of the most brilliant men she'd ever met. One with a penchant for ridiculous business propositions, and rule breaking, and a total inability to sit still. _

_It was definitely unnerving._

"_D'you hear me, Foster?" he said, tilting his head sideways and studying her in a way that was simultaneously charming and irritating. Like she was a puzzle, and he was still searching for the last few missing pieces. "I said you're fired. Takes care of the first part of our problem, doesn't it? Ball's in your court for the rest, I'm afraid."_

_His accent had somehow thickened since they'd left her office (_why in the world had she agreed to meet him at a diner?_) and she absently wondered if it had always sounded like that, or… _not_. Jesus, she could barely even think. Could barely _breathe_ under the weight of his warm eyes, and his charming smile, and his lilting tone._

_And just like that – as they sat at that corner booth, in the waning afternoon hours of what was supposed to have been an ordinary Thursday – Gillian wanted to hide. She wanted to crawl right underneath the table, pull her coat over her head, and wait for him to leave. To stop looking at her… _like that_. Like he could see right _through_ her, well enough to know every detail that made her tick. Every flaw, and every insecurity. Every stray thought, and every unspoken word. It made her feel… _

"_Exposed," he suddenly offered._

_Which was odd, because she hadn't said anything. Not yet. She hadn't asked a question, or said a single word which would've led to that comment. But there it was; two short syllables that described everything she was feeling with complete ease. It was as if he'd reached inside her brain and plucked the word right out._

Exposed, indeed.

_Gillian sighed. Eyes drifting downward toward her coffee mug and half-eaten brownie, she suddenly turned shy. "You'd think I'd be used to that by now, but I'm not. Not even close. I mean, it's like you're…"_

"_Reading your mind?" he interrupted, softening his grin ever-so slightly, until she finally saw a tiny bit of insecurity behind the corners of his eyes. Which was odd, because _this man_? This brilliant, charming, confident man – the one who'd _literally_ written the book on micro-expression and the science behind it, was anything but insecure._

Wasn't he?

"_It's the science, love," he continued. "Can't turn it off. Trust me, once you learn it, it's there. Permanently. No safety switch, I'm afraid."_

_More unnerved than she cared to admit, Gillian tried to think of something constructive to say. Something that could justify how they'd wound up there – less than an hour after their final session together (_because he'd fired her_), less than thirty minutes after he'd offered her a job ("_Partners_, _love_. _Fifty-fifty_."), and less than fifteen minutes after the first time her mind had silently used the word '_sensual'_ to describe both his voice _and_ his brain._

_Her head was spinning._

_She had a thousand questions, and a thousand objections, and they all balled together into one overwhelming clump, sitting heavy in her stomach and at the forefront of her mind. Nagging at her. Gnawing at her. Everything from the practical _('Jesus, Gillian, an hour ago this man was your patient!'),_ to the impractical _('No, you shouldn't care that every time he smiles at you, your stomach… _does that_… because .married. And so is he._'), to the completely insane _('Eight tattoos. I distinctly remember hearing him say he had eight tattoos. And yet… I can only see three. I wonder where the rest are hiding…'_)_.

_And then finally, when she could not take the silence any longer, she opened her mouth… and spoke. Without a plan, and without any real direction. She just decided to 'wing it.' The Twilight Zone, indeed._

_Out of the blue, Cal laughed. He propped an elbow on the table and leaned his chin against the palm of his hand. Totally casual… totally disarming. And then he grinned. "Silent treatment won't work on me, Foster. I don't need words to hear the things you really want to say. Best to keep that in mind, yeah? Or else the next time your imagination wanders down the "Where are the other five tattoos" path, I might not be able to keep from pulling at that thread. So… back to my original point. That job of yours? The one you've not-so-secretly hated, ever since they sent your friend away and killed your spirit in the process? My earlier advice still stands. Just quit. Take the leap. Tell them to kiss your arse, and then come work with me. I promise you, love – you won't regret it."_

_And just like that… _just like that_… she felt oddly relaxed. A strange sort of calm washed over her – it was part adrenaline, mixed with a blend of excitement and resolve. Poof. Her decision was made. _

_Was it crazy? _Absolutely_. _

_Was Alec going to go berserk when she told him? _Of course_. But…_

_Was she going to do it anyway?_

_Was she actually going to jump from the safely vanilla, infuriatingly restrictive world of government power plays and bureaucratic bullshit and go into business with a man she barely knew? One who – up until sixty minutes ago – had been her patient?_

Yes_._

_Yes, she was._

_Because she trusted him. And because somehow… she knew he was right. There wasn't a chance in hell she was going to regret it._

* * *

"_What do you mean you _quit_?"_

_Alec had gone wide eyed and slack jawed, and he slammed his coffee mug down onto the countertop with enough force to make her wince. _He. Was. Livid.

_Not that she could blame him._

"_Jesus, Gillian, it's like I don't even know you anymore," he seethed. "I mean, you spend _weeks_ walking around here in some kind of trance, and then you turn into Mary Fucking Poppins overnight_. _Humming and singing… taking a real interest in your job again… speaking like a crazy person and using words like 'bloody,' and 'tosser,' and 'mate,' and – what was that other one? _Plonker_? I swear, Gill, I don't even think you know_ _what that one means. I sure as hell don't. And now _this_: you _quit_ your job. _Your job_. Goodbye pension and 401K… hello unpredictability. And it's like… Invasion of the Body Snatchers or something. You _look_ like my wife_. _You sleep on her side of the bed, use her toothbrush, wear her clothes. But nothing else matches._ At all. _Because the Gillian Foster that I know – the one that I _married_ – would never, ever, _ever_ quit her job on a whim, just because some guy in a wrinkled suit took her out for coffee and convinced her it was a good idea."_

_Oh, he was on a roll. He was red-faced and blotchy, and getting louder by the second as they stood there together; he, in his weekday wardrobe of suit, tie, and freshly polished shoes, and her, wearing yoga pants and a tank – barefoot and comfortable and obviously unemployed. Or at least… employed somewhere that _didn't_ require heels or a timecard stamp before sunrise._

_Trust her, she hadn't meant to tell him like this. She'd wanted to ease into it. To prepare him. To focus on all the positive things she hoped to gain – all the legitimately wonderful reasons she'd decided to switch careers and start fresh with a man like Doctor Lightman. As partners. As…_ equals. _But instead, she'd panicked. Because when the time finally came to explain herself – to give Alec the play-by-play breakdown of how it had all transpired – she knew it sounded completely insane._

"My day? Oh, it was fine. All business as usual. Made some notes… reviewed some cases… got a new client. His name? It's Lightman. Doctor Cal Lightman. Yes, _that_ Cal Lightman – the author. Small world, isn't it? I mean, who would've ever expected that _I_ would be ordered to counsel _him_, right? Me: the younger, less successful "_fan_" actually getting paid to spend weekdays with him. Convincing him that he is not, and I quote, "Broken in the head." Because he's not, you know. He's not broken. That's what they want him to _think_, but it's wrong. _They_ are wrong. Just like they were wrong about Brian Cunningham. They can't just '_handle'_ Lightman. He won't quietly go away, or play whatever role they want him to fill. He's just… not that kind of man. He isn't _wired_ to comply. He's wired to _fight_. To make waves. To stand up for what he believes in and find the truth, because it's the right thing to do. And I respect him for it. _Very, very_ much."

_Yeah, right. _

_And if she'd told him the rest – that their professional relationship had bled into friendship almost immediately… that he'd fired her as his therapist, and hugged her, and made her laugh, and invited her to be his business partner – well, he would've self-combusted all over the room, leaving bits of sarcasm, arrogance, wingtips and a silk tie fluttering through the air like remnants of a shattered piñata. _

_Messy, to say the least._

_And so, she didn't tell him. Not a single word. Not until… _after_. Not until _now_. When it was easier to ask for forgiveness rather than permission._

(Not that she needed either one.)

"_I know it's a lot to take in, Alec, but please. Can't you at least _try_ to be supportive?"_

_Admittedly, that wasn't the best thing to say. She could've apologized, or tried to sound just a tiny bit sorry for keeping so many secrets, but somehow she_ _led with '_fight_,' rather than '_flight_.'_

_Lightman was influencing her already, it seemed._

"_Supportive, Gill? Seriously?" he mocked. "Alright, then. Fine. We'll try it your way. Enlighten me. Tell me, how much does this new job pay? Where is your office? Your handbook? Your insurance card? Do you get two weeks of vacation, or only one? And please… explain to me how in God's name we are actually supposed to cover our bills once your last official paycheck – the one from that, and I quote, '_Soul-sucking bullshit factory_,' finally dries up? Once you can look me in the eye and answer those questions, _then_ I'll be supportive. Fair enough?"_

_There was a moment, then – just a fleeting moment – when Gillian saw herself from a third person perspective. When she looked down at her yoga pants and ponytail and fresh-faced attitude, and realized that she'd made a mistake. Not with Lightman. But with Alec; her own husband. It left a bitter taste in her mouth and drew harsh words from her lips before her brain had a chance to review them._

_Translation? She didn't think at all. She just… reacted. _

Badly_._

_She slammed her mug down on the counter, perfected a scowl that was every bit as severe as his was, and then she said – verbatim – "_Fair_, Alec? I'll tell you what's not fair. It's _you_, flirting your ass off with a waitress named Sarah, right in front of me, and then having the nerve to turn into a possessive, testosterone filled jackass _every single time_ I mention Brian Cunningham's name. So do yourself a favor. Do _not_ stand there and lecture _me_ about my ability to find a connection with a man like Cal Lightman in only three weeks, when _you_ found one with that twenty-something blonde after five minutes. At least my interest in Cal is entirely professional. Your interest in… _that woman_… was _not_. No, something tells me you would've ordered a side of breasts and tongue with your salad, if I hadn't been there that night. So you have a choice: you can man-up and accept this new reality, or you can walk away right now. Suit yourself. I made my decision, and now you need to make yours."_

* * *

_He should've felt guilty. He knew that. He _did_. But…_

_Sarah was everything he'd needed, and everything he'd tried to convince himself he didn't want. She was beautiful and willing, and her body felt far too good beneath his to feel much of anything except… greed. Raw, unfiltered, male _greed_, that had him hard as steel and ready for round three so quickly that it made his head spin. _

_A side of breasts and tongue, indeed._

_He'd made his decision, alright. Enforced it with every kiss, and every stroke as she writhed atop him – sweaty and radiant, and oh so sensual._

_This was very, very different than what he'd had with Rachel. It was… casual. A fling. There was no emotional connection and no mutual respect, and therefore he didn't feel guilty. _At all.

_Because apparently, he wasn't the only ones keeping secrets in their marriage. Gillian had turned her whole world upside down, without a single thought as to how the fallout would affect everyone else, and now it was his turn. He was already hiding the drugs. Hadn't breathed a single word about his backseat tango with Rachel. A few more secrets wouldn't really hurt anything, right? And if Gillian wanted freedom to make her own decisions, well then… turnabout was most definitely fair play._

* * *

_They'd barely spoken in days._

_She worked late (_funny, since he still had no idea what she and Lightman actually _did_ all day long_), and he was still involved with Sarah, and they were just… distant. Strangers, living in the same house; bound by marriage and history, but little in the way of emotion. Not anymore._

_And so when he looked up from his mostly-cold burger to find Gillian standing there with a white smear down the side of her much-too-casual-for-work sweater, he didn't quite know what to think. _

_At least… not at first._

_The mark ran from the top of her ribs down to her hemline. It was too long to be accidental, and too obvious to be ignored. And the fact that she looked so damned… _happy_… made every hair on the back of his neck instantly stand at attention._

"_What the hell happened to you?" he asked. His mouth was half-full of burger, and he chewed it awkwardly, letting the words dangle out in a messy, immature way as he ignored everything else in the room except that streak across her body. That _white_ streak. That very large _powdery_ white streak that definitely had _not_ been there that morning. He remembered. He'd looked. _

_(Just because they were fighting, it didn't mean he'd gone blind, alright? Gillian was beautiful, and well built, and she wore sweaters very, very well.)_

_Hindsight told him that he probably should've used a different approach, but it was too late to take it back, and really… he needed to know. There weren't many things in life that were white and powdery and given his… recreational… habits as of late (curse Bill Jacobs and his high-volume supply, anyway), he had every reason to be suspicious._

_It was hypocritical, yes. But still somehow valid._

_To her credit, Gillian didn't seem to care 'how' he'd asked the question. She wasn't angry. She wasn't defensive. No, she looked perfectly… relaxed. As if it was normal to come strolling through the kitchen after dark without so much as a phone call or an explanation. _

_She looked happy._

"_Oh this?" she answered, looking down at her body with a giggle and a halfhearted shrug. "It's flour. I thought I got it all, but I guess I missed some. I never knew baking chocolate cake with a little girl could be so messy or so much fun. That stuff was everywhere. On the counters, on our shoes, in my _hair_. Cake tasted great, though. Totally worth every single bit of cleanup required, _and_ every single calorie."_

Flour_._

_It was… flour… smeared down the side of her sweater and not – thank heavens – cocaine. Which was good. Very, very good. Because one of them getting involved with that stuff was bad enough; he didn't think he could take it if Gillian went down that path, too._

Flour_._

_How interesting._

_She'd spent part of the day baking chocolate chip cookies with a little girl. Making a mess in someone else's kitchen, while avoiding her own, and Alec had no idea where she'd been, or who she'd been with, or who the little girl even _was_. All he knew was that Cal Lightman was likely at the center of the story, and that particular truth made him feel like an outsider. Like a man who'd become Gillian Foster's acquaintance, rather than husband._

"_Little girl?" he repeated. Because really, those were the only words that would actually come out of his mouth. The only thing sensible he could manage to say to her at all._

_And though he hadn't expected it to be possible, Gillian's smile widened. "Emily," she said happily. "Emily Lightman. Cal's daughter. She's the sweetest thing, Alec. She's this tiny, perfect, miniature version of him – so smart, and polite, and beautiful, and I just love her to pieces. She's such an amazing kid. You'd love her, too, I'm sure. She has a sweet tooth just like mine, and when she mentioned chocolate cake was her favorite, I thought…"_

Oh, shit.

_That sound? The one way in the background, at the furthest corners of his imagination… so far away that he had to squint and strain, just to hear it behind all the other noise in his head?_

_It was the sound of every single red flag in the northern hemisphere saluting simultaneously and waving in sync – rhythmic and striking and impossible to ignore. Seconds later, instinct, fear, doubt, and disbelief joined in tandem, building a co-dependent relationship of paranoia and guessing-games that made his throat run dry and his stomach start to rebel against the greasy burger he'd given it._

_His wife had spent her day at Lightman's house, with Lightman's daughter, doing domestic things and falling in love with Lightman's family, and… yeah. It was a bit too much to process._

Emily_. _Her name was Emily.

_She was perfect, amazing, smart, polite, wonderful, beautiful… and likely had a mother somewhere, who might not appreciate Gillian's presence in their home any more than Alec did. Which begged an entirely different question: if Gillian had waited this long to tell him about Emily, then what other secrets had she kept?_

_Yes, that burger was definitely a mistake. As was their entire conversation. He felt sick and shaky, and what he _really_ wanted to do was walk right out the front door and drive straight to Sarah's apartment. To use her body to deal with his emotions… to pound his frustrations into her warm, wet heat, until there was nothing left but emptiness again._

_Somehow, the emptiness was better._

_Swallowing down the bile that had begun to rise in the back of his throat, he asked a single question. "Does Emily have a mother?" _

_Granted, Alec wasn't trained to see it. He hadn't read Lightman's book, or paid much attention to any of what Gillian had tried to tell him about micro-expression. But in that moment – that very silent moment – he had no trouble identifying what he saw on her face. _

_It was jealousy. Raw, unfiltered, _tangible_ jealousy._

_And just like that, he knew that whatever 'platonic, business partner, professional' lip service Gillian tried to feed him was likely only temporary._

"_Her name is Zoe Landau," she finally said with a tiny frown. "And she's Cal's wife."_

* * *

**A/N: Next chapter coming soon, and I promise... the plot moves forward. :)**


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N: Thanks for the feedback, everyone! Much appreciated! Somehow this chapter wound up much more Gillian-centric than I'd expected, but there is a pretty healthy dose of Callian chemistry in the second half, so I hope you all enjoy. :)**

**(Also, I don't usually incorporate song lyrics into my writing, but I couldn't resist throwing a few in here. It isn't much, but it's my little nod to the balcony scene. )**

* * *

"_It's Gillian, now," she gently corrected. And then she shrugged, unable to hide the tiny remnants of pity that somehow wove their way across her features and into her voice. "It's time to face the facts, Alec. I'm not your 'Gilly' anymore."_

* * *

In the background, the soothing sounds of Frank Sinatra filled the room with comforting melody. His voice warmed her; it loosened every limb and every ache, until she practically floated – wine glass in hand – back to the sofa. Her eyes drifted closed seconds later, lost in the lyrics and the tranquility that had suddenly overtaken her.

Was this the way she was supposed to feel?

_Probably not._

But facts were facts, and all of _"this"_ – the fallout from a string of selfish decisions, secrets, and misguided efforts to make their marriage work – had been coming for a very long time. And the writing had been on the wall, so to speak, since months before Cal Lightman ever pressed her willing body against it.

Gillian Foster was a rational person, and God knows she'd thought long and hard about how to handle her marriage. How to… _dissolve it_… without making unnecessary waves. _Yes_, Alec had hurt her. He'd cheated, and lied, and wasted away the bulk of their life savings either falling _into_ or _out of_ addiction. But still…

She'd loved him once.

The woman she _used to be_ had fallen head-over-heels for his ambition and his energy; for the stability he represented, and for the strength he'd given her in the early days of their relationship. _He_ was the reason she went into psychology, after all. _He'd_ pushed her into graduate school… gave her pep talks during midterms, when she was convinced she was in over her head… reassured her that she was worthy of anything, despite having dysfunctional and emotionally distant parents who had tried to convince her otherwise.

But now…

_Now_, the woman she'd become knew that real love – _real, unconditional, permanent love_ – could not be measured on a tally sheet. It wasn't mathematical. It wasn't a matter of what one of them had done for the other in the _past_. Instead, it was a matter of what her _heart_ wanted to give to _someone else's_ in the future.

And that someone else… _was Cal_.

Only Cal.

Right on cue, Gillian felt her body respond to his name. She'd said it and thought it a million times over the years, but in that moment – as 'Ol' Blue Eyes' worked his magic in the background, and the wine glass began to feel heavy and conspicuous between her fingers – it sounded different. _New_. And it warmed her, from head to toe and back again, drawing a smile to her lips and a tingle to her limbs that felt like… restless energy, mixed with the promise of something she'd long ago labeled as a mere fantasy.

It felt like _hope_.

Funny how quickly everything had changed. A mere twenty-four hours earlier, she hadn't known what it felt like to kiss him… to touch him… to wrap her arms around his body, or feel his breath hot and heavy against her ear. To hear the sound of her name spoken _in that way_, by a voice thick with both desire and restraint. She hadn't known how hard it would be to walk away from him. To be absolutely certain that she loved him, heart and soul, and yet walk away without saying it aloud.

He'd seen it, though. Of that much, she was positive. And for a little while longer, that would have to be enough.

* * *

Out of all the confessions she and Cal had made that day, Gillian's thoughts kept circling back to what he'd said in her office just a few hours earlier – as she stood with her heart on her sleeve and every single _ounce_ of desire written plainly across her face.

"_There's nothing wrong with taking our time, so long as we both have the same destination in mind," _he'd insisted._ "It's not _when_ we reach the finish line that's important to me, but rather… how we choose to walk the path that leads us there."_

For a man who often joked that he wasn't good with words, Cal had certainly used them well. And then _he'd_ been the one to insist that they stop. To actually say – verbatim – that they should "_focus on the bigger picture_" until all of the other details were sorted out. _Important details_, such as his divorce and custody arrangement… her situation with Alec… and, last but not least, those adoption papers they'd filed. The ones that Cal didn't really know much about. The ones that she now needed to revoke, somehow, and then re-file alone without raising any alarms. After all, the last thing she wanted to do was give the agency any reason to suspect that she and Alec had parted on less-than-friendly terms. Or, heaven help her, that drugs and infidelity were the driving forces behind their split.

_Important details, indeed. _

She took another sip from her glass, mindful of the music as it changed in the background. She heard the words… felt them individually, as if Sinatra had written them specifically for her. And while she knew, logically, that the wine was mostly to blame for her sudden sentimentality, she also knew, _illogically_, that the lyrics just… _fit_.

"_You're always on my mind, though out of sight," _he sang_. "It's lonesome through the day, but oh, the night…"_

Gillian closed her eyes, letting the notes wash over her one by one. And slowly but surely, she began to trust the thoughts that flooded to the forefront of her mind, rather than insist upon brushing them aside. She did not want to stall. Not now. Not when everything had already changed so much.

Somehow, '_stalling'_ felt like a step backwards, and what she really wanted to do was move forward. _Toward_ her future, and _away_ from her past. She wanted to embrace the new and improved version of herself – the one that Cal saw, each and every time he looked at her. Strong, and confident, both with herself and with her life.

His Gillian.

Finally.

"_I ask the sun and the moon, the stars that shine, what's to become of it, this love of mine."_

* * *

As they often did at such a late hour, Gillian's thoughts lingered on Cal. It was predictable, yes… but she welcomed it. The fluttering in her stomach, and the tingle in her limbs and the good, old-fashioned 'charge' she felt as of late, every single time he entered her mind. When combined, all of those things were somehow… _magical_.

Curse her slightly inebriated senses, as soon as that word – "magical" – flittered through her brain, Gillian laughed. At herself. Because that _had_ to be one of the biggest clichés she'd ever heard, and given the fact that their timing was absolutely _awful_, it seemed ten times funnier than it probably was. Trust her to finally admit to herself that she loved him, indulge in two delicious rounds of passionate kissing (_with Cal being half-naked during the first_), make tentative plans to try for round three sometime in the (_near?)_ future, and ask for a divorce all in the same day.

Wine aside, her head was positively spinning.

If anyone were to have written a textbook on how to handle divorce (one of those infamous "Dummies" books, perhaps), then it certainly would _not_ have included a chapter on jumping out of one man's bed and into another mere _hours_ after pulling the trigger on the whole deal. Not even close. But her thoughts had gone rogue, and what was that old adage, again?

Something about the best way of getting _over_ one man was... to get _under_ another?

And just like that, Gillian shivered. Because… _no_. Oh_, no_. Trust her, she had no idea where _that_ particular thought had come from. _Well_… alright, _fine_. She _did_. It came from a very happy place – full of groans of encouragement, and well-placed kisses, and rings that never interfered with the removal of clothing – but _no_.

_Jesus_, it was way too soon. It was… _insane_. It was crazy and wrong and ridiculous, and she just couldn't. _They_ couldn't. And no matter how good she knew it would feel (_the words "bloody fantastic" sprung to mind immediately_) Gillian was suddenly reminded of what Cal had told her just a few hours earlier:

"Next time_, I fully intend to make sure we end up somewhere without phones. Or television. Or radio, or walkie-talkies, or email, or any kind of outside interference _at fucking all_, and… _and_… just to be on the safe side, neither one of us better be wearing a ring. Because I swear to you, love. I swear to you. A third interruption might just kill me."_

Bloody fantastic, indeed.

Her ring was still there – still in place on her fourth finger, where she suspected it would stay until the last of the paperwork was signed. But _not_ because she was grieving the loss of her marriage; not even close. No, the ring was still there because that's simply the way Gillian worked. Just as Cal did.

Two rounds of the hottest sexual escapades she'd had in _forever_ aside, they were traditionalists. They respected the vows of marriage (_Yes, they _did_. They'd stopped, hadn't they?),_ and, like it or not, now that they'd started down the 'Neither One of Us Better Be Wearing a Ring' path, Gillian had to agree: it was the right one to walk. Painful, but necessary.

Simply put, removing those rings would _mean_ something. A step forward – towards a future filled with possibilities and immeasurable happiness – rather than a step back. A _beginning_, rather than an _end_. And that, she knew, was definitely worth the wait.

_He_ was worth the wait.

_Cal_…

And suddenly, she could _see_ him in her minds' eye – slouched on his sofa, in much the same way that she was lounging on hers. With his tumbler of scotch instead of wine; with half-eaten toast, instead of a half-melted chocolate bar. With tousled hair and a wrinkled shirt, and stubble shadowing his jawline in that way that made him simultaneously sexy, yet deliciously unrefined. And she wanted him – his touch, his voice, his body. All of him.

All of him, with all of her.

He was miles away, completely oblivious as to what had happened with Alec, and she _knew_ – without question – that she could change everything with a single phone call. Trouble was… she wasn't sure she should make it. _Yet_.

Rational Gillian knew that she needed to stop; to take a deep breath and focus. Get some sleep, greet the new day with refreshed senses, _and_, above all else, not leap too far too fast. But the _other_ Gillian – the one who'd wanted to do far more than simply kiss Cal Lightman and who'd drawn on reserves of strength she didn't even know she _owned_, just to be able to pull her hands and her mouth away from his body – didn't want to listen.

_That Gillian_ tried to argue.

She tried to insist that they were adults; that they could handle a simple phone call – a simple conversation – without turning into hormonal, sexually-frustrated messes in the span of a few short moments.

She tried to rationalize that she somehow _owed_ it to Cal to tell him what she'd done; that the word 'divorce' had finally been spoken aloud, and that Alec was gone. Permanently.

_But_…

In her heart of hearts she already knew that it wouldn't be a simple call. And that they had as much chance of avoiding sexual feelings as hell had of freezing over; it just wasn't going to happen. Not _now_, and not _ever_.

But she was human. _Weak_. In love with a man who made her feel whole… bound by the constraints of a relationship that made her feel broken… and fighting to reconcile the two so that she could finally be happy. And so she waited only a few short moments – using introspection and the final few sips of wine to sway the tides in the direction she wanted them to turn – and then she reached for her phone.

* * *

Cal answered on the second ring.

"Gill?" he greeted her. "It's late love, is everything alright?"

His voice was so inviting; thick with the burn of scotch, yet rough with the attractive pull of sleep that hadn't managed to find him yet. And any ideas she'd had about what she would actually say to him once she got him on the line just vanished. She wanted to listen, instead. To _feel_, rather than _think_.

As if he'd read her mind, Cal let out the barest hint of a laugh; polite, yet teasing. And then he said, "One sided conversations aren't really my forte, yeah? Especially when I can't see your face. You've got me a bit hamstrung here, I'm afraid."

It was gentle. His attempt to prompt her into an explanation; his playful, slightly self-depreciating words that filled the silence when hers could not. And she loved him for it. For that, and for so much more.

_So much more._

Gillian sighed. She willed away the nerves that had suddenly appeared from nowhere, because she didn't understand them. Didn't want to. But she'd called him, and there was a reason behind it, and well… she had to start somewhere. _Right_?

"Then that makes two of us," she tried.

Mere seconds later, she felt everything begin to change. The energy between them _shifted_, from casual to not and then back again, before settling somewhere in the middle where their longstanding comfort zone began to grow wider. To skirt the boundaries of what had once been _over_ The Line, and now was kept _within_ it.

"Aye, aye," Cal started. Slowly. _Softly_. His voice was low in her ear, and her pulse spiked while her resolve began to crumble. Then she shivered – literally shivered – in a way he would've loved, if only he could've seen it.

"You're the one with the advantage here, remember?" he continued. "Because you can read my _voice_. So tell me, Gill. Please. What's it saying right now?"

_Oh_, this was going to be harder than she thought, because she did not want to wait. Instead, she wanted to hop in her car, drive to his house, and _show_ him what she was feeling. With _actions_, not words. It was as if all of the mutual attraction that had been building between them for years had suddenly spiked – like too much air in an overinflated balloon, leaving her dangerously aware of what would happen with one more puff.

Gillian knew how to move _forward_ – what to _do_ and what to _say_ to bring him to her door in a matter of minutes. And she knew how to move _backward_. How to explain that even though the few stolen moments they'd spent together had been _phenomenally_ good, there was still a _rational_ side of her brain that was afraid to hope for too much, too fast. What she _did not_ know – not even a little bit – was how to _straddle_ the line. How to want him so bloody badly, and yet pull herself back from the edges of temptation after just a taste. How to touch him, and kiss him, and come *_thisclose_* to saying those three all-important words, and then just… stop.

No, she didn't have a _clue_. She was on brand new ground that she had no idea how to navigate. And so in the end, she simply closed her eyes… and jumped.

"It's saying that you're really, _really_ curious as to what happened here tonight with Alec," she tried. "But that you're too much of a gentleman to actually come out and _ask_."

Was it eloquent? No, not even close. But between the effects of the wine, the arousal that had begun to flame out of control, and the stress of making massive changes to her personal life, it was a wonder she'd managed to sound sensible at all.

Through the receiver, Gillian could hear Cal trying not to laugh. And it was a valiant effort, but ultimately… he failed. "_Gentleman_, love?" he snickered. "_Me_? Hardly."

And _yes_, in all fairness, he did have a point. Just a tiny one. But the bigger picture – the one that called to her from behind the hazy details of a day that had been anything but ordinary – told Gillian that what she'd said had been absolutely true, whether he recognized it or not.

"You stopped, didn't you?" she countered. "_We_ stopped, Cal. _Twice_."

Instantly cured of his snickering, he sighed. Deeply. As if he was weighing every possible reply in his mind before deciding on which one to use. "Technically… no," he said. "Two rings and a wanker with a telephone fetish took care of that, yeah? Not my sudden attack of gentlemanly conscience."

And then it was Gillian's turn to sigh, because really… he always did that. Sold himself short and 'tweaked' the details to paint himself in a less-than flattering light, every single time the conversation turned 'grey.' He knew how to handle the obvious; the black and white realities that they'd always known – the ones that served to keep 'The Line' between them firmly in place. But now that _it_ had moved, _everything else_ moved with it. Black and white had become grey as soon as their lips first touched, and she knew Cal was stuck in his own awkward dance between moving forward and standing still.

"You didn't start again, though," she tried, pointing out the obvious. "You _could_ have. You _definitely_ _could_ _have_. But you didn't. So in my book, 'gentleman' fits."

He fell silent then, most likely struck by the way she'd emphasized the words "could have." Twice.

It was the truth, though. He _could've_ slipped her dress from her shoulders, pressed her back against the wall, and poured everything inside of her – his heart and his body – and she would've gone willingly, wherever he led. Because she loved him, and he loved her, and he _knew_ it. He'd seen it right on her face. So _yes_… as far as she was concerned, the term 'gentleman' definitely fit.

"Are you alright, Gillian?" he finally asked, careful to use her full name_. Gillian_. Not love, or darling, or Foster, or Gill. This time, it was _Gillian_.

And there was something in the way he spoke it – an underlying current that caught her ear and made her understand that she really wasn't 'jumping' at all. _Yes_, it was new and exciting, and _yes_, there was an inherent risk. A big one. But…

_But_…

The leap she needed to make led straight into his arms, and Gillian _knew_ – right then and there – that stalling wouldn't get them anywhere. "Better than I've been in a very long time," she said candidly. And then she just came right out and said it – the simple truth that Cal likely already suspected.

"I told Alec that I want a divorce."

That was all. There was no flowery language, and no poetic, 'greeting card' delivery. Just truth. And nothing had ever felt more _freeing_.

Gillian Foster knew Cal Lightman very well – better than she'd ever known anyone in her entire life. And she knew that his sudden silence stemmed from his efforts to reign himself in. In other words, he was so afraid of saying something inappropriate or "Cal-esque" that would somehow ruin everything, that he didn't say anything at all.

Not a single word.

His _thoughts_, on the other hand, were anything but silent. Gillian could practically hear them through the phone line – buzzing and swarming in his head like a cloud of irritated bees. She knew he had at least a dozen questions (_all centering around Alec, and if he'd done anything to hurt her_), and that his gut was trying to pull him in five directions at once. So she took another deep breath before speaking the words she knew would calm him down instantly.

"He's gone, Cal. It's over."

And then she heard _him_ breathe; heard the life start to come back into his body inch by inch, as he let out a deep, shuddering sigh.

"He left?" Cal asked, ever cautious.

"Yes," Gillian answered. "He left. Peacefully. And I'll admit while it _does_ seem a little crazy that one of the most constructive conversations we've had in months came on the night I ended our marriage, there you have it. Textbook dysfunction. I'm just glad it's finished."

"Me too," Cal agreed. And although she knew he was trying to hide it, she easily heard his smile in those two simple words.

So _he_ smiled while _she_ sighed, and then she finally opted to address the other obvious issue. _The big one_. Which was _how_, exactly, they were going to 'cap' things for the evening, when the air had turned tense – _as_ _in_, sexually tense. Again. Alec Foster had been one of the main reasons they'd "stopped," and now that Gillian's divorce was looming, could they _really_ manage to wait for everything else to be crossed off the list?

_Talk about a million dollar question._

Gillian became acutely aware of the mantle clock as it ticked along in the silent background. Its cadence reminded her that they'd reached a crossroads: they could listen to their _bodies_, and give in to temptation in the most delicious way… _or_… they could listen to their _heads_. Take their own advice, and handle everything that threatened to interrupt them so that when their time finally came, it would be… _brilliant_.

Suddenly introspective, her eyes tracked the room until they landed on that photo of Cal – the one that sat in front of her, where Alec had stood hours earlier as he tried to fight the inevitable. She loved that photo; loved the _ease_ it held, and the unspoken reassurance that she would always be safe with him.

And a beat later, _that's_ what swayed her decision. _That_ word, specifically. 'Always.' Because she realized that it wasn't about one night, or one experience, or one… anything. It was about their future, and how they wanted it to begin. So… she chose brilliance.

"Cal, I want to see you tonight," Gillian started. "You know that, don't you?"

She paused then, listening to the conflict between her heartbeat (which rang with complete confidence that she was about to make the right decision) and the other parts of her body that began to groan in disappointment. Loudly.

"I _want_ to see you," she repeated. "But… it's late, and I'm so tired, and…"

Trust him to hear the words she hadn't spoken yet; the ones that were stuck in her throat – tangled in a knot of desire and curiosity that she couldn't quite shake. And trust him to take the lead instead… to reassure her that he understood, and agreed, and that he was still very much willing to wait.

So as Gillian's voice faded away, his rang through clearly. "_And_," he emphasized, picking up right where she'd left off, "if I come over right now, neither one of us is likely to get much sleep, yeah?"

His tone was playful, yet comfortable, and she smiled instantly – able to imagine the look on his face and the waggle in his brows that occurred every single time they flirted so openly. She loved that waggle; loved that he did it just for her, because he knew it made her happy.

"My thoughts exactly," she answered. "So… how about we make a deal, then? No sleepovers or middle-of-the-night visits until everything is settled, and any threats of interruptions or sudden attacks of conscience are off the table. Call me selfish, but after what happened between us today – _twice_ – I want to make sure that next time…"

Before she could finish the thought, Cal groaned. The sound of it echoed loud and long in her ear, causing a fresh trail of gooseflesh to run down the side of her neck and beyond, until it faded into a slow burning ache near her pelvis. Bittersweet, and appetizing, and _oh so real_.

"_Next time_," he repeated, "cannot come soon enough, love. And if Zoe, or Alec, or that bastard lapdog Jacobs drags so much as a _finger_ through this whole process, to slow it down just for spite, then I swear to you, Gillian. I just might crack."


	37. Chapter 37

**A/N: A very sweet guest reviewer asked if the last chapter (#36) was intended as a flashback. So I just wanted to clarify that it wasn't; it was set on the same evening that Gillian asked Alec for a divorce, and shortly after he left the house. This chapter follows along chronologically as well. It is set in the hours after Cal and Gillian finish their flirtatious phone call, while they're both (separately) trying to sleep.**

**Thanks again to everyone who sent feedback, messages, or followed – I appreciate it so very much! Hope you will enjoy this chapter, as well.**

* * *

For the fifth time in as many minutes, Cal's eyes popped open in the darkness and he turned to stare at the clock. It simply would not move. _At all_. Midnight had bleed into two o'clock with ease… which in turn bled to half past three, and still he couldn't sleep a wink. It was maddening.

Scotch usually calmed him; made his limbs relax and his body settle so he could sink into the comfort of his mattress and just… _be_. Just breathe, in and out, and let sleep creep in naturally. But not this time. _This time_, everything felt… _off_.

It was cliché (and a bit pitiful at his age) to have a bedtime routine, and he knew that, but still… he had one. Unsurprisingly, Gillian was at the center – had been for months, really. Since long before he'd ever known what it felt like to hold her, or kiss her, or touch the curves of her body with eager hands, or…

_No_.

His lips pulled tight with frustration, and Cal groaned. He needed to stop that – to stop picturing her. Right away.

Because _that_? His overactive, always colorful imagination? It wasn't helping anything at all. Quite the opposite. In fact, "that" was nearly the entire reason he was still awake at quarter of four, imagining all those tiny details that he'd almost been able to feel beneath her clothing, before they'd been interrupted.

_Stupid rings. Stupid phone. Stupid conscience._

So there he was; fidgety and restless and tucked beneath layers of unnecessary blankets, when what he _really_ wanted to do was tuck himself into the curve of her spine, drape one arm across her hip, and allow the heady, reassuring scent of her body to lull him into relaxation.

_Cliché and pitiful, indeed._

The pitiful part came from timing. Because, really… he felt a bit like an animal. It had been less than eight hours since Gillian sent Alec Foster (_that sodding bastard_) out the door with his suitcases and his wounded pride, thereby taking the first steps to end their marriage. And there Cal was, imagining all the ways their phone conversation could have gone, so that she would've wound up _in_ his bed, rather than miles away from it. Yes, the words "too soon" were a ridiculous understatement; he knew that.

But…

He _also_ knew that self-control was not his forte. That even though he'd meant every single word about waiting… being a 'good boy,' _or_, as she called it, a '_gentleman_' was not something he did well. And he had little doubt that if she called him again (_or texted, or emailed, or sent something in Morse code, for Christ sake_), then he'd be likely to answer it very, very enthusiastically.

_And preferably naked._

What was he thinking again? Oh, yes. Routine. His pitiful, clichéd, _Gillian-centric_ routine; the one that drew his imagination to her face, and her laugh, and her gentle smile, and her… _everything_. She was his favorite relaxation method – his mental 'comfort zone' – and had been for much longer than he'd ever allowed himself to readily admit. Not until that night. That night, on Gillian's sofa… after Zoe ripped his heart out and he finally held still long enough to realize that _maybe_ she'd had a point. Hence the alarm bells he'd heard in his brain, when he'd woken up entangled with a woman he'd long insisted was only a 'friend' (_Jesus, what an understatement)._ The ones that rang louder in that restaurant, when Gillian told him about her miscarriage and her asininely selfish husband. The ones that made every instinct in his body turn into a slideshow of exactly _how_ and _when_ he wanted to hurt Alec Foster for even daring to speak to his sweet Gillian in such a cruel way. Yes, he remembered it distinctly. Somehow, she'd been his Gillian even then.

_Quarter past four._

Blinking in the darkness, Cal cursed the coffee he'd downed prior to the Scotch. _And_ the chocolate that had served as a midnight snack. That's right: chocolate. Normally, he hated the stuff. But he'd been aimless and alone, wandering the house in search of… _something_… and suddenly, there it was: _her_ ice cream in _his_ freezer. Maybe it was just his way of staying attached to her or something (yes, he knew that sounded idiotic) but nonetheless, he'd robotically scooped heaps of the stuff into a bowl and flopped down on the sofa with a grunt, hoping to relax. His pitiful, Gillian-centric routine: The Chocolate Version, apparently. And when that didn't work (of course it didn't) he turned to coffee. Just because – and this was the pathetic part, again – it was Gillian's, too.

There he was: a grown man who stocked his kitchen with coffee and ice cream that he bloody hated, just because she loved them, and he loved her. Funny. A full circle path of logic, by way of dessert; no wonder Zoe had always been so irritated when he brought those things home.

So he _bought_ them because he loved her, and he _consumed_ them because he missed her, and because he _could not_ indulge what he really wanted. Which was Gillian herself. Hence, the sleepless night filled with nothing but the thoughts of Gillian's skin, and her scent, and her voice, and her long legs, and… bloody hell. Bloody, sodding hell. Now he'd really done it. As soon as the image of _those legs_ hit Cal's brain, everything south of his waistline began to come alive so quickly that his body literally began to ache.

_That's right: ache._

It settled fast and furious – low in his pelvis, with a heat and a force that quickly began to spread like wildfire, thanks to his overworked, under-sexed imagination. And finally, when he was just about to give into temptation and 'handle' the situation himself, he heard it.

His phone.

At half past four in the morning.

Bloody hell, it was actually ringing. Glorious, magnificent ringing. And trust him, if it hadn't been right there on the nightstand, Cal would've quite literally vaulted through the room to find it, while thanking his bloody stars that finally, _finally_, they might have a chance at their "next time."

After all, who else would be calling him so early? It _had_ to be Gillian. It just had to be.

Right?

In hindsight, he should've expected it. The day that had started with Zoe's tirade, which then led straight away into his first and second interludes with Gillian, which then ended with her asking Alec for a divorce – so to say that things had gone "according to plan" would be an absolute lie. There was no plan. No 'blueprint' way to handle things at all.

_At all._

No, pre-dawn phone calls certainly weren't on any plan. Neither were raging hard-ons, or sexual frustration, or wanker-ish _soon-to-be-ex_-husbands, or any of the thousand other things that _could have been_ waiting on the other end of the line. Cal's hopeful, sleep-deprived brain had just _assumed_ it was Gillian. That she was calling to tell him she caved… and she couldn't wait… and she needed him, right then and there. Hard, fast, sweet, slow – in every possible way – and _bloody hell_, he planned to deliver.

So he grinned like an idiot, quickly shimmied back into his jeans (a cross-town trek _sans pants_ while sporting an extremely proud erection was likely to earn him unwanted attention from the neighbors), and didn't even think to actually look at his phone before he answered it.

But… just a split second after his breathless, "I'm so happy you called, love," shattered the silence, Cal realized that he'd been very, _very_ wrong. Because the voice he heard on the other end of the line – the irritable, sarcastic, petulant voice – wasn't Gillian at all.

It was Zoe.

_Bloody hell, indeed_

* * *

For the tenth time in as many minutes, Gillian's eyes popped open and she turned to stare at the clock. Midnight had bled into early morning with ease, and there she was: sleep deprived and restless at a quarter past four. It was ridiculous.

Wine usually calmed her; made her mind relax enough to sink into bed and just… _be_. Just breathe, in and out, until sleep crept in naturally and everything fell blissfully peaceful around her. But not this time. This time, everything felt… _off_.

It was cliché (and slightly pitiful at her age) to have a bedtime routine, but still… he had one. Predictably, Cal was at the center – had been for months, really. Since long before she'd ever known what it felt like to taste his skin, or explore his mouth with hers, or touch the solid lines of his body with eager hands, or…

_No_.

As her fists clenched tightly with frustration, Gillian groaned. She needed to stop that – to stop imagining _him_. Right away. Her overactive imagination wasn't helping anything at all, and was – in fact – nearly the entire reason she was still awake, mentally mapping Cal's body like it was a treasure map. X marks the spot, indeed.

There she was; tucked beneath layers of blankets when what she really wanted to do was feel him nestled against her spine… feel the comforting weight of his arm draped across her hip… and allow his heady, inviting scent to lull her gently into sleep.

_Cliché and pitiful, indeed._

Self-control had always been one of her fortes, but it was certainly not one of Cal's. And even though she'd agreed with everything he'd said about waiting… Gillian had little doubt that if she called him again (or texted, or emailed, or sent a telegram, for pity's sake) then he'd be likely to answer it very, very enthusiastically.

_Preferably while she was naked._

What was he thinking again? _Oh, yes_. Routine. The one that drew her thoughts to his face, and his impish grin, and his… _everything_. He was her mental 'comfort zone,' and the only person who'd ever been able to reach her – the real her – behind the walls she'd built. He'd broken them down, reached in, and guided her out… step by step, inch by inch, until every facet of her imagination screamed in protest that she still needed more.

More of his touch… his mouth… his hands. More of his lips, and his passion, and his…

_No._

_No_, she could not do that. She could _not_ fixate. She could _not_ call him. And she certainly couldn't drive to his house in her nightgown and casually climb the stairs (and his body) to take matters into her own hands – the idea alone was crazy. Fun? _Yes_. Satisfying? _Definitely yes_. But still…

She couldn't. It was settled. They'd agreed to wait.

Trust her, Gillian was beginning to _hate_ that word. 'Wait.' It just felt… _evil_. And cruel. So… rather than linger in her empty bed, frustrated and sweaty and achingly alone, she sat up (cursing under her breath as she moved) and decided to tackle her list head-on. Right then and there, before sunrise. Temporary insanity by way of sexual depravation, apparently.

Did she have a plan?

No. Not even close.

Because quite frankly, _none_ of this had been planned. Divorce… infidelity… drugs. They were all unexpected and painful. But they'd led her to a place filled with more hope than she'd ever felt before, and finally – _finally_ – it felt like she was living her own life again. Like _she_ was the one in charge of steering it toward the path she wanted to walk. And of all the unexpected bumps she'd encountered so far, the best one, without a doubt, had been falling in love with Cal.

Gillian was smiling as she stood in the shower; smiling as she brewed her coffee and buttered her toast. Smiling as she chewed… as she read emails and tried to find a recommendation for an attorney of her own. And she was positively beaming when success came at seven o'clock, by way of an early-morning referral sent in a message from her old friend Brian Cunningham.

"_Good for you, Gill_," he'd written at the end. "_Never liked that husband of yours, anyway. You deserve nothing but the best, and I hope that the man who finally wins your heart will understand exactly how lucky he is_."

At quarter past seven, she grabbed her cell phone and typed a quick text to Cal. "_Won't be in this morning_," she hastily wrote. "_Decided to tackle those interruptions one by one. Attorney first, agency second. Will check in soon. Maybe we can meet for lunch. Miss you. -G."_

With a little luck and a few productive hours, Gillian hoped to have the largest two items on her 'list' well underway by lunchtime. She'd start the divorce paperwork… change her application status at the adoption agency… and be back at the Group by early afternoon.

At least, that was the plan.

But she was too distracted to notice that even though her message had been _sent_ to Cal's phone, it hadn't been _read_ yet. In fact, it hadn't been read at all, because – and she didn't notice this, either – his phone was turned off. That's right: off, at seven o'clock on a weekday morning. Less than an hour before she would've normally seen him at the office. Less than eight hours after they'd last spoken and left things rather… steamy… between them. No, her attention was fully focused on the stack of personal files under her arm and the giant coffee mug that was tucked into the crook of her left elbow.

Coffee first, attorney second, agency third. In _that_ order.

And bless her distracted, list-tackling heart, Gillian most certainly had no way of knowing that step number three – the agency - would be the game changer. _The big one_. The one that would take all of her best efforts to 'steer her own life' and flip them on their ear.

* * *

**To be continued...**


	38. Chapter 38

**A/N: Thanks for the feedback on the last chapter everyone! Also, since I can't reply to the guest reviews directly, I just wanted to take a moment to touch on a comment and reassure everyone that Brian Cunningham is honestly just Gillian's friend. As for Zoe? You'll find out the reason for her phone call here. Thanks for reading, and I hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

_But… just a split second after his breathless, "I'm so happy you called, love," shattered the silence, Cal realized that he'd been very, _very_ wrong. Because the voice he heard on the other end of the line – the irritable, sarcastic, petulant voice – wasn't Gillian at all._

_It was Zoe._

Bloody hell, indeed.

* * *

"You know I wouldn't call you unless it was an emergency," Zoe insisted. "But it is."

Frowning into the receiver, Cal sighed. Because it certainly didn't sound like an emergency. Not even close. No, it sounded like she was at the end of her rope and only phoning him at because she'd already run out of other options. And it took so much effort to find a reply that wasn't laced with passive-aggressive anger, that all he managed to say was a single word. "_Emergency_?"

He heard Zoe's reaction a second later and had no trouble imagining the look on her face: eye-rolling, most likely, coupled with that dismissive pout that was practically a trademark. Yes, he knew it well; he'd been on the receiving end of it more often than he could count, and was bloody thrilled not to have front row seats for the pity party that was sure to follow.

(_He knew _that_ well, too_.)

"I'm serious, Cal," she snidely continued. "And if you're arrogant enough to think that I'm actually _enjoying_ this conversation, then let me make things perfectly clear: I'm not. _At all_. Understand? So excuse me for thinking you might actually give a shit about your daughter, and offer to help just this once. I mean, it's not like we planned this. No one ever _plans_ the flu. But I can't send her to school with a fever, because that's against policy, and I certainly can't send her if she's vomiting, because that's just... cruel. My hands are tied, here. _Hence_, the emergency."

She was using that tone he hated, almost as if she was talking down to him – as if he were a child, and he'd just spilled grape juice on her best white pants. The longer she spoke, the higher his irritation climbed, until he wondered how he'd ever managed to live with her at all. Because seriously… the woman _would not stop_.

Hell… she wouldn't even _slow down_.

"It's not even five o'clock," Zoe continued – and though it had been at least three full minutes since Cal had spoken a single word, she didn't seem to notice. "I've been up half the night with Emily, and there is _no one_, Cal – _no one_ – on my list of back-ups who can stay home with her on such short notice. And I have jury selection in four hours! So _please_. Do us all a favor and spare me whatever sarcasm you're about to unleash because what I need today is your help, not your arrogance."

Finally finished, Cal heard her exhale heavily as she waited – impatiently – for him to speak. And trust him, he had no idea what to say. _Well, alright_… he did; he had _some_ idea. But it was cruel and spiteful, and he really didn't want to start off on that foot because they _did_ share a child together, and at some point one of them needed to be the grown up. They couldn't 'fight' forever. It wasn't healthy, and it was so bloody tiring. Not to mention downright horrible for Emily.

_So_… he thought. About their history... about their divorce... about the custody issue that she still wouldn't drop. And although her monologue had been a veritable minefield, the word that cut him deepest was '_home_.' As in, '_Emily has a different home now, you idiot. She's here with me, while you're in that big house all alone, with just your cold sheets and your expensive Scotch to keep you company_.' Old wounds… new salt. It was a bad combination, to put it mildly.

As his bad luck would have it, when she finally noticed his prolonged silence, she misinterpreted it. (Excuse him for not being overly 'chatty' at the crack of dawn). She must've assumed he was going to tell her _'no_.' That he wouldn't stay with Emily, and that she could take her all-important 'jury selection and shove it.' _Sideways._

That pity party he'd been expecting? The one that almost always followed the eye-rolling, self-involved woe-is-me speech she'd just finished? It took her all of thirty seconds to serve up a hefty dose of 'bitch' and a side order of guilt to go along with it.

"Listen, I know this is inconvenient," she said, front loading the guilt without even realizing it. "It sucks, and I get that. But I'm _sure_ you can manage to swap something around at work today. I mean, it _is_ your name on the door, so tell the others to put their big kid pants on and deal with it. I'll have the regular sitter by there by noon, but I need you to cover for her this morning. Alright?"

Trust him, Cal did _not_ want to fight with her. Not at all. But there was just something so… acidic… about the way she was speaking to him, that it bypassed his mental 'filter' and shot straight to his reserves of nasty comebacks in two seconds, flat.

Because clearly… Zoe Landau was not in a mood to play nice.

"I believe the saying is flies and _honey_, Zo," he countered. "Not flies and _vinegar_. A little bit of sweetness gets you far in life, yeah? Perhaps you should brush up on that expression, just for future reference."

Zoe gave an indignant snort and made a second noise that sounded like total disgust. "So apparently you're the world's biggest smartass _before_ sunrise a_nd after_. It's no wonder you look so tired all the time."

Any other morning, under any other circumstances, Cal probably would've led with something… risqué; something that would've hurt her, just because he _could_. (Hell, he might've told her that he would be sleeping much better soon enough, when Gillian was there to curl up in his bed.) But this time, the words wouldn't form. _This time_, Zoe had called him because of _Emily_. Because _Emily_ was sick, and _Emily_ needed him. And that, he knew, was where the focus needed stay. On their _daughter_ – the one they both loved – rather than on some interpersonal power struggle that neither no one was likely to win.

So… he tucked his sarcasm away, took a deep breath, and finally decided to speak from his heart. For Emily's sake, as well as his own sanity.

"Let me get this straight," Cal started. He was doing his best to _sound_ calm, despite the fact that he _felt_ quite the opposite. He spoke slowly… precisely… giving equal weight to every single word that came out of his mouth, because he knew it would catch her attention and catch her off guard.

"You've spent _weeks_ trying to screw me over on custody," he continued. "Working every possible angle you can find in order to ensure that I see Emily as little as possible, when – as you well know – I have never done _anything_ to deserve that. Not even close. I'd gladly stand in front of a bullet for that child… I'd give her anything in this world, and yet you still want to use your legal leverage to rub salt in my wound. Except now, when you have no other choice, you turn to me. _Her dad_. And you act as though I might actually say 'no.' Well, I've got news for you, love: Emily is _my_ daughter, too. And looking after her – even when she's home sick from school, and I haven't gotten a bloody wink of sleep all night – is not "inconvenient" at all. It's called being a _father_, Zoe, and that's what I'll always be, regardless of what your bloody custody paperwork tries to say."

Blame it on lack of sleep, or stress, or the realization that his ex-wife was – for all intents and purposes – using him more as a babysitter than a dad. But as he sat there, on the edge of his bed in the pre-dawn hours of a morning when he'd wanted to be with Gillian, Cal Lightman had finally reached his limit.

He'd played nice… he'd followed the rules… and yet there he was: stuck at the crossroads between Zoe's intention to win sole custody, and Gillian's efforts to prevent it. _Or rather_, Gillian's attempt to blackmail some tosser named Bill Jacobs into preventing it. _The same tosser_ who'd tried to touch her and had likely done a few dozen _other_ things for which Cal would punish him, if ever given the chance.

And bloody hell, he was just _itching_ for a chance. Because anyone who tried to harm his Gillian was…

_Uh-oh_.

Just like that – in a matter of a single micro-second – Cal's breath caught in his throat and his thoughts suddenly began to streamline into one singular direction.

_Gillian_.

That name – _her name_ – began to float through his mind on a constant loop, as if guided by some kind of invisible connection that he probably wouldn't have believed at all, unless he felt it for himself.

_Bloody hell._

As crazy and cliché as he knew it sounded (_and_ _trust him, the phrase 'temporary insanity' felt fitting_), the moment _her_ _name_ began to filter through _his brain_, Cal could feel himself start to relax. He could _literally_ feel it – like a calming wave, after the worst of the storm had passed. And he could breathe again, evenly, in a way that was not forced. His heart rate slowed, and his anger calmed, and suddenly he realized there was a bigger point that needed to be made.

And so… he made it.

"A child needs both parents, Zo," he sighed. "_Both parents_, equally. You and I? We're a disaster together. A royal, sodding mess. But we _do_ agree on one thing: that our Emily deserves the best possible life. And I think _this time_, that bastard Jacobs was right: we need to work _together_ to raise her. _Together_. _As in_, teamwork. Because let's face it, love – you can't have it both ways. You can't have me as a 'back-up babysitter,' if you force a judge to legally limit my custody. Life just doesn't work that way, yeah?"

Through the receiver, he heard nothing but the sound of Zoe's breathing – in and out in measured beats, as she tried to think of a reply. And then finally, when he was just on the verge of ending the call and driving to her new house so they could do this in person, she said it. The words he wasn't sure he'd ever, _ever_ hear her say.

"As much as it pains me to say this aloud," she started. And Cal noted a new undertone in her voice – something strange he'd never heard before – that made him simultaneously cautious yet hopeful, as if Zoe herself was still struggling with the weight of what she was about to tell him. It was a bit like resignation, in a sense. Like closure.

_Painful, but necessary._

"As far as custody goes, you're right," she said. And even though I _know_ Gillian was the one behind this whole thing – the one who convinced Jacobs that I was acting like a giant bitch for keeping Emily away from you… I think that maybe…"

She paused then, just for a second. Just long enough for Cal to hear a slight rasping sound in the background that was half cough and half gag. And it hit him that Zoe Landau – a woman who'd faced countless juries, criminals, judges, reporters, and various assorted Washington hooligans – was, for lack of a better phrase, eating crow. She was literally choking on her own words, and it thrilled him beyond measure because it meant that finally… _finally_… they were making progress.

"Maybe," she repeated, "Gillian was right, too."

* * *

Cal grabbed a quick shower and was en route to Zoe's by half past five. Painfully early, yes… but he'd meant what he said. Fatherhood was not an inconvenience, and his daughter's welfare was far more important than a few hours of sleep. Not wanting to wake Gillian with a pre-dawn phone call, he opted to text her instead. Just a quick message, to let her know that he needed to spend the morning with Emily, and that he'd see her in the afternoon. It was totally reasonable, and completely normal, and he didn't give it much thought at all.

"_Won't be in this morning. Emily sick – flu, I think. Nothing too serious. Z has jury selection. Will be at her house with Em till noon or so. Let me buy you lunch? Miss you, love. -C."_

Once that was sorted, he typed a similar email to Loker (_minus the lunch invitation and 'miss you' bits, of course_), tossed his laptop in its case, and grabbed his keys. With any luck, he'd have Emily on the mend in a few hours, be able to grab a quick nap with her in front of the telly, and have his normal workday routine back on track by lunchtime. He'd meet Gillian for lunch… try to convince her that 'waiting' would be much more tolerable with a bit of kissing thrown in… and be back at his desk by early afternoon.

At least, that was the plan_. _But he was too distracted to notice that he'd accidentally pressed 'cancel' instead of 'send' as he finished Gillian's text. Which meant that Loker's email had gone through just fine, but Gillian's message... had not.

_Uh-oh._

And, as luck would have it, he was _also_ too distracted to realize that he'd somehow managed to turn his phone completely _off_, instead of just putting it on silent.

_Double uh-oh._

Trust him though, it was not a conscious decision. He did not think to himself, "Self_, do you know what would really be great?! If we stay completely out of contact with everyone – including Gillian – for the next six hours_!" No, no… it was an accident. Bumbling fingers mixed with a dangerously low amount of sleep, and _poof_… he'd gone off the grid without ever even realizing it.

So there he stood – in the middle of Zoe's foyer at sunrise, with his plan and his rumpled shirt and his laughable distraction. And an hour later, as he watched her car pull out of the driveway and slowly merge with the early morning traffic, he actually _smiled_. He was grateful for the chance to spend a few hours with Emily… to know the divorce would proceed smoothly now, without the roadblock of a custody battle standing in their way… and – most importantly – coffee.

_That's right: coffee._

Bless her cold, frigid heart, Zoe had left nearly a full pot in her wake, and Cal practically floated toward it. Yes, tea would've been better – Gillian would have left him tea – but it was something. It was caffeine, and warm, and caffeine, and… _yes_, he knew he'd said it twice, and _no_, he didn't think it was funny at all. Emily was tucked safely in bed – with her fever and her stomach both under control, at least for the moment – and Cal's entire body sagged in relief as he began to form a new plan.

He'd drink half a cup of coffee first, check on Emily second (_sadly enough, he needed the coffee to safely make it up the stairs_), and nap third. In that order.

It sounded blissfully simple.

_Too simple._

Hours later, when the ache in his bruised knuckles _paled_ in comparison to the pain etched on Gillian's tear-stained face… when his arms could not hold her tight enough, and his hands could not erase the hurt that another man's selfishness had caused… hindsight would creep up and whisper that he _should have_ seen it coming.

But he was ignorant. Ignorant, and sleepy, and happy to be under the same roof with his daughter again – even if it was only for a few hours.

And in that moment… ignorance was bliss.


	39. Chapter 39

**A/N: Forgive me if this feels a bit like a transitional chapter, guys. I'm aiming the plotline towards the resolution of the adoption issues, and I promise… Cal's bruised knuckles that I recently mentioned? Those will come into play very, very soon. Stay tuned. **

* * *

Sam Rayburn was everything Gillian had _not_ expected to see: warm and friendly, with a casual approach that made her feel as though she'd already known him for years. He was older – maybe five or ten years past Cal – with a full beard and silver hair, and had just enough of that 'rough-around-the-edges' charm to keep her on her toes. As crazy as it sounded, it was like meeting a younger, thinner version of Santa Claus, mixed with Loker's radical honesty and Cal's intelligence.

She liked him immediately.

He'd given her coffee _(her favorite brand!),_ with real sugar _and_ her favorite creamer, and thanks to her insane sleep deficit, Gillian seriously considered hugging him as she reached for her second cup. Warm, rich, caffeinated _heaven_, served up by the man who would finally break the last of her remaining ties to Alec. Ah, yes… less than thirty minutes into their first meeting, and she'd already decided he was – without question – the best attorney in Washington.

It really was _very_ good coffee.

Sam had all the basics covered within the first half hour. Everything from the house (hopefully sell it and split the profits), to the joint bank accounts (a fifty-fifty split) to Gillian's life insurance policy (the beneficiary would be changed to Cal, of course) was handled with ease. And then, when the conversation turned toward children – or rather, to the lack thereof – she'd pulled off a miracle by not shedding so much as a single tear. Granted, she'd probably have crescent shaped scars in her palms, thanks to the fists she'd made as she thought about her miscarriage, but still… she hadn't cried. And for reasons she couldn't quite explain… she felt rather proud of herself.

So she sipped her coffee while Sam studied one final stack of bank statements, and everything was going along just fine until his next set of questions stopped her cold.

"What are we talking here, Gillian?" he started. And there was an odd look on his face – one that _should've_ told her he was much more insightful than she could've ever imagined. But she missed it.

_Entirely_.

Because she was still focused on her coffee… still stuck in her own head, thinking about realtors, and finances, and her lunch date with Cal. And just as she was ready to answer his casual question with an equally casual answer, _that's_ when she heard it: Sam Rayburn cleared his throat a bit, as if he were trying to _ease_ into the words that had somehow gotten stuck inside it, and something inside Gillian's head just… clicked.

Uh-oh.

She knew that tactic very well; had used quite often herself, and she gave him credit for at least trying to be diplomatic about the whole thing. But… in the end, he just spoke the words flat-out, like ripping off a bandage in one fell swoop.

Maybe it was easier that way.

"Alec's drug of choice," Sam asked. "Tell me… is it ecstasy? Heroin? Maybe cocaine?"

At the sound of his last word – cocaine – everything fell silent. Her eyes went wide, her jaw dropped open, and she stared at him with utter _shock_ written all across her face. She could literally _feel_ it there, etched into her muscles as it painted the room in an awkward hue; as if a dozen skeletons had just tumbled out of her proverbial closet and landed right in the center of Sam's desk.

_Oh_, she wanted to hide; wanted the floor to open up and swallow her, so that she didn't have to deal with… _this_. Because she now needed to admit Alec's dirty little secret to a man who was, essentially, a _stranger_, and – as if that weren't bad enough – she needed to explain _why_ she'd stayed married to a drug addict for years.

_Years_.

_Jesus_, she hadn't even told Cal yet. _Cal_. The man she trusted more than anyone else in the entire world. And if she hadn't been ready to discuss it with _him_, then how was she even _possibly_ ready to play this awful game of twenty questions with someone she'd known for less than an hour? The thought alone made her nauseous.

_On paper_, it was just one word. Just seven letters, which made two syllables, which would tell the story _for_ her in all its messy, pathetic glory. And it was Alec's problem, really. _His_ weakness. Not hers. She knew that in her head – _truly_, she did. But the habits she'd formed while keeping all those secrets (for_ him_ and for their _marriage_ and for the benefit of _everyone else_) held her tongue. They bound it by shame and indignity, until her reply hid behind body language that she couldn't seem to control.

Fingers trembled… breaths grew shallow… skin paled.

Bless his heart, Sam must've seen it – the 'shift' in her demeanor that took it from openness, to panic, to nausea as she struggled to form a reply. He _must_ have. Because in the very next breath, he looked at her with nothing but kindness in his eyes and said, "You're a strong woman, Gillian. You're smart and successful, and whatever Alec Foster did – whatever bad choices he made – it's not a reflection on you. That's all _his_ baggage, not yours. And I think it's time you stopped carrying it for him."

And just like that…

_She did. _

Gillian took one deep breath and then another. She sat up straighter… felt her fingers still and her stomach begin to settle, as every last trace of shame finally fell away from her face. And then, she told Sam Rayburn the truth she'd long kept hidden from every person in her life – including Cal. Because Sam was right. It wasn't her baggage to carry anymore.

"It's cocaine," she said.

The word hung between them for a few moments: conspicuous, blatant, and sad. And between the sudden silence she _heard_ and the relief she _felt_, Gillian couldn't help but wonder… how did Rayburn ever guess that drugs had been an issue at all? Because she hadn't mentioned anything medical – let alone illegal drugs. So unless he was a hybrid of Santa Claus, mixed with Cal, mixed with Loker _and also psychic_… there was no way he could've just _guessed_. No way _at all_.

_Was there?_

"How did you know it was…?" she tried. But Sam cut her off with a wave of his hand before the question was fully formed. As if it were no big deal and he'd just… just… _read_ the truth from her.

It was downright eerie.

"It's all in the finances," he explained, tapping the point of his pen against a small stack of bank statements that were spread across his desktop. "They tell me that someone – Alec, I assume – spent a year making bi-weekly savings withdrawals until the account balance dropped to zero, and every last cent was gone. And then, _someone else_ began making deposits again."

_Eerie, indeed._

"I say 'someone else' – meaning you," he continued, "because they _always_ coincided with the date of _your_ payroll deposit. Crazy, right? _But_ – and here's the really interesting part – you used a _different_ savings account. One that Alec wasn't able to touch."

_Stunned_. Gillian Foster was just… _stunned_.

That was the only way to describe it, really. She just sat there silently – half amazed and half shocked by the _ease_ with which Sam Rayburn put the pieces together. Quite frankly, it was something _Cal_ would've done. He would've looked at the facts, flipped them over and under and upside down until he could see things from every angle, and then he would've come up with something brilliant. A magic 'answer.' A hidden truth. He always did. And so despite her lingering embarrassment, Gillian couldn't help but think they'd do well to have Sam on their payroll.

_He'd fit in quite well, actually._

"So it begs the question," he said, "where did all the money from the first account _go_? I mean, no reasonable person burns through that much in a year without _something_ material to show for it, right? Something like… an addition to their home, or a car, or a vacation, or… something. But it's all just _gone_, Gillian. _It's_ gone, and yet _you_ take it upon yourself to build it back up again. On your own. In a format that Alec can't touch. So the way I see it, the culprit _has_ to be either gambling or drugs. Sadly, it's not a big stretch to assume the later."

Oh, he was _good_. He was very, _very_ good. Brilliant and insightful in an understated way that wasn't demeaning or condescending _at all_, and she was impressed. Cal… Eli… hell, their _entire staff_ would've been impressed. This guy was something of a natural.

Moments later, when her brain began functioning in ways that did _not_ involve embarrassment and shock, Gillian finally thought to ask a question of her own – partly out of habit and partly out of curiosity, but still… she wanted to know where she stood, and how much potential fallout she'd just caused by teaming up with a man who struck her as the Cal Lightman of the legal world. _In other words_, she wanted to know if he played dirty.

"Tell me, Sam. Once the ball starts rolling and the paperwork is filed, how much of this becomes public record? Because despite everything that man has put me through – everything from the drug addiction, to the infidelity, to the constant lies – I don't hate him. And I don't want to humiliate him. I just want _out_, you know? I want to move on with my life as quickly as possible, and avoid as much of the mudslinging as I can."

Sam smiled slowly, as if she'd just earned even more of his respect by being so… so… _polite_ about the whole thing. Because 'polite' divorces were about as common as flying pigs: they just didn't happen.

"Fair enough, Gillian," he said. "I _can_ use the drug angle to get you more money – to put pressure on Alec's counsel so he's _more_ inclined to compromise and _less_ inclined to be a jerk, but nothing's written in stone. So I promise: unless they force my hand, I will not disclose anything about cocaine, or the money that he took. Best case scenario, this will all be pretty straightforward. No kids… no custody… just the assets to divide. And as long as he's not a total asshole, 'quick and painless' isn't completely impossible."

More relieved by his answer than she'd expected to be, Gillian smiled and began stacking her copy of each document back into their portfolio. "_And that_," she said pointedly, "is one answer you _cannot_ learn from bank statements."

"What's that?" Sam asked, wearing the ghost of a smile as he quirked a single brow.

Gillian gave a low laugh under her breath. "At least half the time, Alec Foster's _middle name_ is 'asshole,'" she said. "I just hope we get lucky as far as his attorney goes, and he _doesn't_ hire the only man in Washington that I'd happily strangle with my bare hands."

Sam chuckled, brow quirking even higher as he watched her from across the desk. "_You? Strangle_? Now _that_ is something I find hard to believe. What's the guy's name, anyway?"

"Bill Jacobs," she answered. "Professionally, I know his reputation is great – he wins, and he wins big. But personally? _Trust me_, he's a real piece of work. He's an arrogant, egotistical snake with zero morality and even less respect for women. He's just…. _awful_."

A beat later, Sam's expression shifted to a mix of amusement and disbelief – as if he fully agreed with her. _Yes_, Jacobs won cases. He was hard-nosed, and tough, and if it were _money_ she was after, well then… sadly, they'd be screwed. The guy lived and _breathed_ money. Had his ego driven by it. Saw clients as dollar signs, rather than individuals with opinions and needs.

_In other words_, Bill Jacobs was the exact _opposite_ of Sam Rayburn, right down to their ages, their appearances, and their mannerisms. In Gillian's eyes, everything Sam did _right_… Bill did _wrong_. And just about the time she'd decided she could not have found a better attorney, Sam upped the ante and wound up making her feel at least a hundred times more confident.

"Jacobs is all talk – just a tall guy in a power suit, who is more concerned with his ego than he is with the law," Sam said. "He's gotten lucky. Damn lucky. Intimidation and charm are his main strengths, and he works them well. But in all the times that I've faced him in court… he's never, _ever_ won. Not even once. Trust me, Gillian: intimidation and charm are no match for experience and persistence. And I've got both of those in spades."

* * *

Stepping out into the morning sunshine once again, Gillian smiled. She'd found the perfect attorney, knocked out her first appointment in record time, and was running early for her next stop: a meeting at the adoption agency with a woman named Regina Cross.

_So far, so good._

For the most part, Gillian felt hopeful. After all, Regina hadn't balked at the short notice; she hadn't offered a single complaint or negative word or anything to make her feel unwelcome. In fact, the woman sounded surprised – as if something had clicked into place as soon as she answered Gillian's call, and there was now one _less_ thing on the agency's 'to-do' list, rather than one _more_.

_But_…

If she'd been paying _better_ attention, Gillian would've easily heard the underlying tone in Regina's voice. The one that would've told her – if only she'd heard it – that her peaceful, efficient, list-tackling morning was about to go off the rails in a major way.

For the moment, though, she was oblivious. So she breathed a sigh of relief, counted her blessings that everything was going so well, and dialed a quick call to Cal, just to hear his voice. It hadn't really been _that_ long since they'd spoken, but still… she missed him. And if things at the agency went as well as they'd gone with Mr. Rayburn, then she hoped to kick off their unofficial lunch 'date' a bit earlier than expected.

Cal's phone, however, went straight to voicemail. Which meant that it was either turned off or dead – but probably the later, because he never turned it off. _Ever_. So she opted to try the office too, in hopes of catching him there. After all, he might not even know the stupid thing wasn't working, and it bore repeating: she _really_ wanted to hear his voice, just to give herself that little extra boost of confidence she'd need when she met with Ms. Cross.

So Ana patched her through to Loker, who eventually explained that Cal had _also_ taken the morning off. Turns out that a fevered and flu-ish Emily coincided with Zoe's jury selection, which meant that Cal was pulling dad duty and leaving Gillian to hold down the fort at the Group until afternoon. Which would've been _fine_, if she hadn't also gone temporarily missing.

_Talk about a miscommunication._

Still, though… she was optimistic. They had no pressing cases; nothing that Eli and the others couldn't handle without her for a few more hours. And besides, if things with Ms. Cross went as smoothly as she _assumed_ they would go, then there was no reason she couldn't be back at her desk before lunchtime. She would not panic… she would not cancel her appointment… and everything would be _fine_.

_Just fine._

She could survive the rest of the morning without talking to Cal, and so could their staff. And maybe, just maybe, in a few hours' time, she'd be able to give him some very good news: that everything on her 'list' was well on its way to being solved, and they'd have their chance at round three (_seriously, that sounded so… adolescent_) sooner, rather than later.

"You sound very… _distracted_, Dr. Foster," Loker suddenly offered. He said it almost as an afterthought, yet managed to pack a laughable amount of innuendo into the last word. _Distracted_. As if he'd read her mind and seen Cal's face (_and hands, and body, and… everything_) in her imagination. So she blushed and stuttered, trying to change the subject just in case she let something slip that wasn't yet ready to see the light of day.

But before she could speak a single word, Eli chuckled and said, "Funny. Lightman sounded distracted, too. And tired. So when you two didn't show up this morning, a few of us started to wonder if maybe you'd both finally come to your senses and decided to…"

_Uh-oh. _

_No, no_ – she did _not_ want to have this conversation yet. Or rather, _at all_, with their staff. And especially not with the one person on their payroll who advocated radical honesty. No, _that_ would be crazy. She'd make one innocent, off handed comment and Eli Loker would run around with a bullhorn, announcing their 'status' to anyone who'd listen. Treading lightly was key.

So to counter his curiosity, Gillian gave a deep, irritated sigh into the receiver in hopes that he'd take it as intended and understand that it was his cue to shut up. He did. Mission accomplished.

"I assure you, Eli. Doctor Lightman and I are most _definitely_ in two separate places this morning," she said. "And since his phone is either dead or purposely switched off, then I doubt he got my text. _So_… if he happens to show up before I do, without any clue as to where I've gone, please tell him that I have an appointment at the agency. A woman named Regina Cross was nice enough to squeeze me in on very short notice, and so I don't think it'll take very long. Should be quick and painless. And since I'm in such a good mood and feeling a bit… _nostalgic_, I'll even stop for a coffee run on my way back to the office. Sound good?"

Gillian wanted to be careful not to offer too many details, but still give him enough information to realize that she was _not_, in fact, curled up in bed somewhere with Cal and trying to avoid work. Hence the name dropping, and the offer to get coffee. Short… sweet… convenient.

And non-committal.

Leave it to Loker to press for more information, though. It took him only a few seconds to ask the question she _should've_ known was coming next. "'Agency' is a pretty vague word, Foster," he said. "Want me to tell him which one?"

No. She didn't. Because Cal would probably figure it out for himself in a matter of minutes anyway, and she was _definitely_ not ready to discuss her adoption issues with an intern. So she took a deep breath, tried to figure out an appropriate answer that wouldn't just lead right into another question, and finally decided on a half-truth.

"Just tell him that with a little luck… there will be one less interruption to worry about once I'm finished."

* * *

**A/N: Just a couple of notes, here. First, there's definitely a reason that Gillian spoke to Loker at the end of the chapter... it's directly connected to what comes next. Also, there's a reason I used the phrase "feeling nostalgic." That will also come into play very soon. Now the trick is getting what's typed on the screen in the upcoming chapters to match up with the way I see it in my head. :)**


	40. Chapter 40

**A/N: My apologies for the delay in posting this chapter - real life got away from me for a week or so. Updates should come faster, now. As always, many thanks for the feedback and messages - it's very much appreciated! Enjoy!**

* * *

_Ah, coffee._

Ordinarily, Cal wasn't a fan of the stuff. But by his third cup – when Emily's temperature had been stable for two solid hours and she was finally able to keep down some dry toast – he began to feel human again. He was still tired, of course. Still feeling a lag in his reaction time. But he knew it would pass soon enough, and he'd be back to his normal self by the end of the day.

_In other words_… so far, so good.

He wasn't complaining.

True to her word, Zoe sent a babysitter to the house around noon. And after Emily insisted _at least_ fifteen times that she was _not_ a baby and she _didn't_ need a sitter, Cal knew that the worst of the flu had passed. _So_, he wrapped her in a bear hug, promised he'd see her again as soon as possible, and headed off to the Lightman Group with only one thing on his mind.

Or rather, with only one _person_ on his mind: _Gillian_.

Truth be told, he couldn't even remember the last time they'd made it through a weekday morning without speaking. Her face was always the first one he saw at the office – often smiling, and giving him that 'look' that somehow seemed custom made just for him. It was like… part exasperation and part flirtatious fun, and as pitiful as it sounded, Cal just felt '_off'_ without it. Without _her_.

Those thoughts (_among others that were _also_ Gillian-centric_) kept him busy during the short drive between Zoe's new house and the Lightman Group's building. And just as he pulled into the parking lot – smiling like a fool and singing along _(yes, singing – he couldn't help himself)_ to whatever song was playing on the radio – that sluggish reaction time promptly bit him right in the arse.

Downright sneaky, it was.

He'd killed the ignition… had his phone in one hand to call her, rather than wait the extra ninety seconds it would take to actually _walk inside_ and hear her voice… and that's when he noticed it: Gillian's car.

Or rather, the lack of Gillian's car. Which wasn't anywhere in sight.

Two spaces away, however, was one he'd recognize anywhere – and the mere _sight_ of it was enough to send his somewhat sluggish observational skills into fast forward. Because its owner was none other than Alec Foster.

Bloody hell.

Barely twelve hours had passed since Gillian asked that wanker for a divorce, and yet there he was… live and in living color. And so it bore repeating: bloody hell. Cal groaned. Clearly, this was going to require more than just coffee. No, he needed something stronger – something like Scotch or whiskey. (_Or a sledgehammer. He wasn't picky_.)

Cal hated that car. It was as pompous and overstated as the man himself – complete with vanity plates, monogrammed leather seats, and this God-awful air fresher that smelled like the ocean, or citrus fruit, or whatever else Alec could find to disguise the stench of 'pitiful bastard' that seemed to emanate from his very pores_. _

_Oh yes_, Cal bloody _hated_ that car. Even more so now that _it_ was here, and Gillian's _wasn't_.

So he took a few deep breaths – in through his nose, and out through his mouth. And then when that didn't even begin to settle his nerves, he stormed through the front door with a semi-permanent frown and his attitude barely in check. In all fairness, though, he wasn't looking for a fight. Not really. Which meant that he wouldn't intentionally go out of his way to hurt Alec, by breaking his nose or his kneecaps just because he could, now.

No, he'd try to stay calm. Honestly, he'd try. Because after all, maybe _Gillian's absence_ had nothing to do with _Alec's presence_, and everything on her end was just fine.

_But_…

But if _that man_ intended to plead his_ pathetic case_… if he intended to ask Gillian for another chance, or beg for her forgiveness (again), or do _anything_ short of getting his things the bloody hell _out_ of Gillian's office, well then… it was not going to be a very good afternoon for Alec Foster _at all_.

* * *

Traditionally speaking, Gillian was not a self-conscious woman. Most times, she was confident; a true 'people-person,' who handled herself well in social situations and did not shy away from conversation. But within the first five minutes after she settled herself in the waiting room, she just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

It was like this odd sort of internal panic, when someone just _knows_ all eyes have turned toward them, and yet they just can't figure out _why_. There's no obvious reason – all buttons are buttoned and all zippers are zipped… both shoes match, and hair isn't sticking up at crazy angles. But still, it's there. That feeling. A bit of mild paranoia, mixed with self-doubt.

In a word, it was miserable.

And every staff member she'd met so far was _definitely_ looking at her strangely. Dissmissively. In a way that made her feel like she'd taken a time machine back to junior high school and those women were the mean girls she used to know, who didn't approve of her hairstyle or her shoes or the color of her purse.

Slight correction? It was miserable and humiliating. Which didn't bode well at all, considering she hadn't even made it past the waiting room yet. Still… Gillian's inner optimist tried to convince her that everything would be fine once she actually _met_ Regina Cross. That she was just overreacting due to lack of sleep and a few too many cups of coffee, and things were not as… _off_… as they felt.

_But_…

As luck would have it, the handshake told a different story.

Because as soon as Regina Cross held out her hand in greeting, her body language told Gillian – in half a second, flat – that she was being pitied, rather than welcomed. And trust her, _'pity'_ was the very last thing she wanted. No, Gillian Foster did not want to be labeled as a childless woman, or viewed as less than whole because she still hadn't been able to adopt. In fact, that was the whole purpose of her visit; to discuss the status of her application. To 'tweak' it. To convince Ms. Cross and anyone else who would listen that she was perfectly capable of being a single mother… that she had more than enough love to give any child, with or _without_ a husband's name on the paperwork alongside hers.

_Fate, _however, had other plans.

The optimist Gillian had mentioned? The one that lived inside her, still trying to insist that everything would be fine? It was silenced a moment later, just as she spotted her case file and application spread across Regina's desktop. Because that was the moment when every single ounce of optimism in her body changed direction, and morphed into an icy cold, nausea-inducing reality check in two seconds, flat.

She saw a small mountain of paperwork, with forms of various fonts and sizes… but the one that squeezed her heart was placed on top. It was very clearly marked with the words 'Biological Mother' and 'Biological Father,' and _there_ – just slightly to the right, in blood red, _handwritten_ ink was a single word that screamed up at her from the surface of the page.

'_Denied.'_

* * *

Most of the time, Cal Lightman wore his neutral mask just as easily as he breathed. It was always in place – covering everything from anger, to frustration, to arousal and back again as if he'd _literally_ wiped them from his face. He was a master at hiding things he didn't want anyone to see, and – as luck would have it – he'd learned to conveniently 'tweak' anything that _did_ happen to slip through the cracks into something else. Something... _close_. Something 'true' enough not to get his real emotions outed by his staff, but still 'safe' enough not to cause too much gossip among them.

Gillian was a case in point. _Alright, fine_… if he were being totally honest with himself, Cal would admit that she was the _only_ case in point. Because each and every time he'd tried to mask his feelings while at work, _she_ was the motivation behind it.

_Arousal?_ All Gillian.

Jealousy, anger, frustration, anxiety, happiness, love – the entire breadth of human emotion? _Gillian, Gillian, Gillian_.

Granted, Cal Lightman was human; he felt things just as deeply as everyone else. He felt anger and frustration during difficult cases… he felt happiness and love for Emily… those emotions were all a normal part of everyday life. But _those instances_ were different, because in _those instances_, he was _supposed_ to react. He didn't _need_ to hide anything; he could let his walls down and show the whole world he was angry, or concerned, or frustrated and it was _fine_. It was _good_.

It was _normal_.

But as far as Gillian was concerned? Or rather… as far as Gillian _used to be_ concerned? 'Hiding' was the key word. It kept him safe. Centered. Hidden behind their 'Line,' as he rationalized his way around everything – from the slightest flirtation, to the most casual conversation, to the pull of jealous anger he almost always felt whenever Alec Foster was nearby. In fact, Cal had long ago reached 'expert' level when it came to hiding things from Alec. He'd done it for years – _years_ – since the first day they met, and Alec had stared him down with a dismissive snort _(yes, an actual snort)_ and then walked away without so much as a handshake.

Truth be told, Cal didn't know how _not_ to hide things anymore. He'd made a habit of lying _so well_ for _so long _that Alec Foster likely had no clue just how deep the chasm between them actually ran. Cal wore white in one corner… Alec wore black in the other… and in Cal's mind, that's the way it had always been. They were enemies (in a sense), but Alec was often too self-centered to notice. Now, that's not to say that Alec assumed they were _friends_, though. He didn't. He wasn't _quite_ that bloody stupid. But he certainly didn't think that Cal's level of complete and utter disgust ran as deeply as it did.

_As in_, deeply enough that _every single time_ Cal saw Alec's face, he was reminded of the raw pain on Gillian's as she told him about her miscarriage.

_As in_, deeply enough that _every single time_ Cal saw a briefcase – anyone's briefcase – he remembered spotting Alec's hidden near the front door on that morning he and Gillian woke up on her sofa, and he then got a glance of the lying bastard Foster really was.

_As in_, deeply enough that _every single time_ he heard Alec's _voice_, or drove near his _workplace_, or even saw his bloody _picture_ in Gillian's office, he wanted to scream. To shatter the mask and the pretenses. To grab the arrogant tosser by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, because Gillian was bloody _wonderful_ and he didn't appreciate her at all. Never had, and never would.

All those feelings had been hidden away for ages. Tucked behind lines… disguised by his mask… boxed up and put on pause until they could be handled properly (_if at all_). As pathetic as it was, civility– rather than honesty – had long ago become habit.

_The translation?_ Even though Cal _despised_ Alec, he tried to keep things 'clean' for Gillian's sake. And even though he'd thought of _at least_ a dozen different ways to punish the bastard for those awful things he'd said about Gillian's miscarriage, he brushed them aside so that she didn't have to relive the pain. In the end, Gillian was always the center; Cal _thought_ and _felt_ and _reacted_ based on what was best for _her_.

_But_…

It took him all of three short seconds – when Alec Foster's face was the very first one he saw, and he realized that Gillian was definitely _not_ at the office – to decide that sometimes… habits were made to be broken.

* * *

Gillian could not breathe.

_Literally_, she could _not_ breathe.

One second she'd been optimistic and hopeful, and the next… she was weak kneed and shaky. Lightheaded. And very, very nauseous. Because _that word? _ That cruel, caustic, _leveling_ word? It didn't belong on her application at all.

_Not. At. All._

A beat later, logic tried to tell her that it was just a mistake. After all, she couldn't be _denied_ without first being _approved_, and… and… that hadn't happened yet. She and Alec had never been chosen, so therefore it was simply impossible for them to be denied.

Logic… reason… rationalization. They all kicked into high gear, individually, as Gillian's brain began to downplay what she'd _seen_, and twist it into something sensible. Something _possible_. An explanation that would fit circumstances which seemed otherwise _impossible_.

Other women might've fallen to pieces; they might've burst into tears and crumpled to the ground like a tattered leaf – windblown and battered beyond repair. But she didn't. Not yet. Instead, every single instinct in her body told her to 'wait.' To pace herself. To ignore the tiny voice in the back of her mind that threatened to assume the worst and just… relax. Because a single word on a single piece of paper was not necessarily the end of the world. And truth be told, a 'mistake' _did_ seem the most likely explanation.

_Right?_

Gillian knew that being chosen – having their application, above all others, selected by a birth mother – would've been a major development. _As in_, it would've generated phone calls and forms… questionnaires and home visits… tears of joy, mixed with overwhelming relief. Hell, she would've thrown a goddamn ticker tape parade right through the middle of downtown Washington just to celebrate. It would _not_ have been subtle.

_Not even close. _

But there were no phone calls, and no home visits, and no over-the-top parade because _they had not been chosen_. And so by default… they could not be denied.

Simple as that.

Besides, 'Foster' was a common name. Maybe it was a simple case of mistaken identity. An intern who grabbed the wrong application… marked 'denied' at the top of the wrong form… and crushed _her heart_ for a few seconds, rather than _someone else's heart_, permanently.

And so there was a brief moment – a matter of seconds, really – when Gillian's inner optimist began to find its voice once again, and she told herself that it was all _fixable_. They'd clear the confusion, get a new form (on which she'd file as single rather than married), and everything would be back on track within the hour. But…

_But_…

Gillian was too distracted to realize that something was very, very _off_. She didn't notice that everything – every last detail, including the air itself – felt wrong, somehow. It was too silent… too suffocating… as if she was being watched (and judged) by every single inanimate object in the room, like even the _furniture_ was waiting for the moment when she would finally just… _break_.

No, she didn't notice the air. Or the silence. Or the wide-eyed expression on Regina Cross's face that would've told her – without question – that the worst was still to come. But just a few beats later, when Regina dared to speak the words that hit her like a blow to the stomach and knocked her inner optimist straight to the floor… Gillian realized that she'd been wrong.

_So very wrong_.

"I really am sorry Mrs. Foster," Regina said gently. "But based on the new information that Mr. Foster disclosed to me when I called last night… I'm afraid that the birth mother has changed her mind."

* * *

**A/N: The next chapter will pick up right here, and the simultaneous back and forth between Gillian / Ms. Cross and Cal / Alec will continue until this section of the storyline is resolved. Those bruised knuckles I mentioned a while back? _Cal's_ bruised knuckles? That detail will be a major player before this arc is finished. Thanks for reading!**


	41. Chapter 41

**A/N: As promised, this chapter picks up right where the last one left off - with Cal and Alec coming face to face at the Lightman Group, and Gillian getting her heart crushed at the adoption agency. **

* * *

Whereas Gillian specialized in vocal patterns and all things related to _language_, Cal's forte was _behavior_. He studied how a person moved… noticed reaction time and body positioning… read miniscule muscle twitches as easily as other scholars read the printed word. In short, he knew _people_ – everything from what made them tick, to what made them break – and often times it took only a single glance for Cal to start putting the pieces together.

Gillian could do it too, of course. She knew the science. Had learned it from him. Used it every day, either to save his ass or help him save _someone else's_, and if there were anyone in the entire world that Cal trusted to employ it successfully… it was her. _His Gillian_. His partner. His… _everything_.

And so, when he finally stepped inside the lobby and came face to face with one very disheveled looking Alec Foster (_who'd taken up residence in the reception area as if he bloody _belonged_ there_) those were quite literally the only two things on Cal's mind: Gillian… and the science. Or rather… how best to use the science to determine where in the world she'd gone.

_The translation? _

The Alec Foster that Cal had always known wore power suits and wingtips… smug smiles and striped ties… carried a briefcase and walked with his nose so far in the bloody air that it was a wonder the man didn't drown every time it bloody rained. He was arrogant and pompous and self-centered, without fail.

But what Cal now _saw_ sat in direct opposition to everything Alec had always _been_, and it took only a matter of microseconds for the heavy hand of reality to creep in and grip his stomach its iron fist. Faded jeans and a university jumper… bloodshot eyes and splotchy stubble… sunken posture and a defeated expression. Alec was there, and Gillian was not, and Cal just knew – with certainty – that those things were connected. _And_ that he needed to find her.

_Immediately_.

Call it instinct… experience… paranoia… _whatever_, but Cal's over-protective tendencies began to flare. Alec hadn't yet spoken a single word, but Cal already wanted to hurt him. Slowly. And with as much creativity as possible. So, he wasted little time in walking right up to the younger man to try and goad him into conversation. To intimidate him. To make him feel as uncomfortable as possible, because _that_ was what Cal did – in a sense, it was his signature style. He invaded...

And he never, _ever_ backed down.

But whatever reaction he'd expected to provoke was quite different than the one he actually _got_, because Alec Foster did not move. He did not speak. He simply sat there, crumpled up into a sad little ball, seemingly oblivious to Cal's presence. That's right: Alec slumped, while Cal stood over him – close enough that he could actually smell the stale funk of alcohol and depression and failure that hung in the air like a cloak. And it was… _bizarre_.

Absolutely, undeniably _bizarre_.

Because on any other day, those two men mixed about as well as oil and water, and yet there they were: one silent and sunken, the other suspicious and brooding, as if each was just waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. Alec would let it hit him right on the head, and Cal would use it as a weapon – raining blows upon his younger opponent, if push came to shove.

Five seconds passed. Then ten… and then twenty… and finally, when Cal could not take the awkwardness a single second longer, he spoke through gritted teeth.

"If you know where Gillian is…" he started. And then he paused, because the amount of raw _control_ Cal heard in his own voice took him completely by surprise – like he was seconds away from snatching Alec Foster up by the scruff of his neck and shaking him, just on general principle. Because he _could_, and because Alec almost surely deserved it, and because Cal was tired of living a lie.

"If you know where Gillian _is_," he repeated, "then I suggest you tell me right now. Because _you_ are here, and _she_ is not, and _I_ am not a stupid man. You look like death, Alec. Like you fell out of the back-end of a dump truck which then _ran over you_, and then you rolled around in a rubbish bin just for fun. Like death, but… smellier. And trust me, there are only a handful of things that make a man crumble that fast: heartbreak… crime… gambling… and drugs, to name most. _So_. I'm going to walk down this hallway and into my office, because I don't want to do… _this_… out here, yeah? I'm going to walk away, and you're going to follow me. And _then_ you're going to tell me – _in detail_ – exactly what you've done to hurt Gillian. Or else _I_… will hurt you. And that's a promise. Understand?"

* * *

"I really am sorry Mrs. Foster," Regina said gently. "But based on the new information that Mr. Foster disclosed to me when I called last night… I'm afraid that the birth mother has changed her mind."

Gillian felt absolutely _leveled_. Her eyes instantly filled with unshed tears, and she literally had to grab the corner of Regina's desk to steady herself, lest she pancake right to the floor. It was like she'd somehow slipped into an alternate dimension and was watching everything from a distance. Nothing looked real, and yet everything felt real, and she couldn't quite reconcile the two.

She wanted to scream. Wanted to be heard. Wanted someone to tell her she'd been right – that it really was just a mistake, and everything was going to be fine, and her lifelong dream of motherhood had not just imploded in the middle of a stranger's office, while she stood there mute and helpless.

But she couldn't.

She couldn't move… couldn't speak… could barely even _breathe_. She just kind of froze there in a semi-standing position, with her jaw gaped open and her fingers still locked in place on the desk – as if it had become an anchor, of sorts. As if it was the only thing still tethering her to reality in any way at all, and as soon as she let go… _poof_. She'd be forced to confront her biggest failure.

"New information"… "Mr. Foster disclosed"… "Called last night"… "Birth mother"…

In a matter of seconds, everything Regina Cross said – every word, every implication, and every single syllable – had broken itself down piece by piece in Gillian's mind, leaving her with smaller bits that somehow seemed _safer_. Simpler. _Less_ confusing, and _more_ direct. And in turn, each small piece led straight to a question. A very _specific_ question that made her simultaneously furious and heartbroken, until eventually… all she could _feel_ and all she could _see_ centered entirely around _that word_ on _that page_.

'_Denied.'_

Oh, how she hated that word. Hated the way it sounded. The way it made her feel. The way it now told her – beyond a shadow of a doubt – that someone had waited until her dream about to come true, and then snatched it right out of her grasp. No apologies. No explanation. Just a blood red word on a black and white page.

'_Denied.'_

It was only six short letters that somehow felt powerful enough to look directly _into_ her heart and pierce the muscle with cruel, caustic candor. They stabbed, pricked, speared, and gouged… and in their wake, tiny little hollow spots remained. Six fresh wounds for six individual letters, and each one bled just as red as the ink with which the word itself had been written.

Instinct told Gillian to speak. To say something – anything – that would help her understand what the hell had gone wrong. And even though the room felt sickeningly silent… even though Regina Cross was staring at her with a look that could only be described as absolute pity… she did.

"He told you about the drugs, didn't he?"

Trust her, that was the very last sentence Gillian _ever_ thought she would speak aloud – much less in an adoption agency_. Much less_ to the woman who had, apparently, held the power to legally grant them a child. But her inner-optimist was long gone; it was curled into a fetal position in the corner of the room, stuffing itself with chocolate and wondering how things had spiraled so far out of control. And now that she was staring straight into her future with a wounded heart and nothing left to lose, the words had just fallen out of her mouth with their own free will.

It bore repeating: she felt absolutely _leveled_.

And she was tired of living a lie.

Regina's expression quickly softened – shifting from pity, to sympathy, to sadness in a matter of seconds. It was appropriate and appreciated, and yet it was everything Gillian did _not_ want to see. Because even though each of those emotions 'fit' the moment, they made her feel weak. Broken. Like a complete and utter failure.

She had chosen to stay with Alec. All those years… all those second chances… they'd just been wasted. So much time and energy gone – lost – along with little bits of her heart that were frayed and scattered, spotted with scar tissue and so much regret. And she felt… responsible, in a sense. Started to see everything through an "if only" type of lens.

_If only_ she'd left him sooner.

_If only_ she'd listened to her heart.

_If only_ she'd been strong enough to see the truth of his addiction for what it was, rather than what she wanted it to be.

But she'd made her choices and he'd made his, and looking backwards did not change anything at all. It didn't solve the problem. It didn't help her heal. And as the consequences came together like a violent thunderclap – shaking the ground beneath her feet, and rattling her self-confidence to its very core – Gillian Foster wanted to cry.

The room had gone silent again, save for Gillian's shaky breathing and Regina's gentle sigh. And it was as though both women wanted to say something, but neither knew the right words to choose. In the end, though, it was Regina who took the first step.

"Mrs. Foster," she said – and then quickly thought better of it, reaching one hand across the desk and dropping it next to Gillian's like a lifeline, as she corrected herself. "_Gillian_. Is there… is there someone I can call for you? A friend, perhaps? Or a family member? Because I'd be happy to…"

_Friend._

_Family member._

Gillian's hand shot involuntarily to her purse, until her fingers wrapped securely around her cell phone and she lifted it into her lap. Cal. She wanted Cal. Because he was friend, family, partner, support system, confidante, anchor… all of it. He was everything she _needed_, and the only thing she _wanted_, and that tiny little voice in the back of her head – the optimistic one, which had finally put down the chocolate, uncurled itself from the fetal position, and began to speak again – thought that maybe, _just maybe_, he could fix it.

Gillian would call, and he would answer, and she'd feel whole again. Stronger. So she unlocked her screen and quickly turned the ringer on again… and then, just as she was ready to press the single button that would connect her to Cal's line, she saw it. The notification in the bottom right corner that showed _fifteen_ missed calls.

That's right_: fifteen._

They'd all hit within the last three hours – with the first one coming just as her meeting with Mr. Rayburn began, and the last one coming just a few minutes earlier, right before she'd walked into Ms. Cross's office. All of them – all of them – had been from Alec, and thanks to her decision to keep her phone on silent (lest she disturb anyone else), she hadn't heard a single one.

Gillian swallowed. She felt pale and clammy… nauseous and shaky… and very, _very_ alone. And right on cue – as if she'd literally _heard_ that thought herself, and wanted to echo it – Regina spoke up again.

"I just don't want you to be alone," she said sympathetically. "Not today. And not like this."

_Three… two… one…_

Whatever reply Gillian had intended to say simply died in her head, because that word? Alone? It summed up everything she felt, everything she knew… every single stray emotion, impulse, and broken promise that coursed through her veins. It haunted her. Pulled at her gut, and tore fresh wounds along inches of skin that ached to be comforted in Cal's strong arms, and healed by his love.

But he couldn't fix it. He couldn't heal her. No one could. And she knew that, now.

So, Gillian wiped away the one lone tear that had managed to fall… stuffed her phone back into her purse… and slowly shook her head. "No, Ms. Cross. There's no one you can call."

* * *

On any other day and at any other time, the Lightman Group would have been bustling with noise. Phones would've rung… people would've roamed the hallways… and at least ten different interruptions would've hit Cal's office within the first ten minutes after he stepped inside. That was normal; it was the day-to-day 'buzz' that went hand in hand with running a business, and for the most part… he liked it. He liked the 'life' of it. The humanity. The literal pulse he felt within his company – one that made him feel grounded and sane.

But on this day, everything was different. Phone lines were silent… employees made themselves scarce… and there was an odd sort of silent tension that permeated everything – from the walls, to the furnishings, to the air itself – as if even the building sensed Gillian's absence and was waiting for the moment when Cal would finally just snap. Because without her there to help steer the ship, he felt… lost. Gillian was gone and Alec was not, and Cal still hadn't gotten an answer as to why.

Five minutes.

It had been _five bloody minutes_ since they'd walked into Cal's office. _Five bloody minutes_ since Alec had slumped down in the middle of the sofa, as though someone had quite literally deflated him. _Ten bloody minutes _since tiny waves of panic began to flood through Cal's brain, because he had nothing – no voice mails, no emails, no notes – absolutely _nothing_ at all that would've justified her absence, and he hated it.

He. Hated. It.

_As in_, Cal felt every rational impulse in his body begin to shift… to gather itself… to bond together into a weapon built on fear and love and friendship. And he _could not_ hold still. His fingers shook themselves into fists, his jaw tightened, and then he said – through gritted teeth and with eyes full of fire – "Consider this your last warning, mate. Because I _swear_ to you… I am _not_ a patient man. And you'd be wise to cooperate, yeah?"

_Three… two… one…_

Just as Cal reached the end of his patience… just as he reached out to grab the younger man by the shoulders and haul him to his feet… Alec Foster _finally_ dared to break his silence.

"I tried to call her, you know," he said brokenly.

And trust him, _that_ was quite possibly the _last thing_ Cal expected to hear. He'd braced himself for lies and excuses, apologies and avoidance. But _truth_? In _any_ form? He hadn't seen it coming at all.

So he frowned while Alec sighed, and both men stared at each other from opposite sides of the battle line, with Gillian's welfare at the center of the storm. Cal was confused. Extremely confused. Because if Alec had tried to call her… if it was something that could've been handled over the phone… then why in bloody hell had he come to the office in the first place?

In other words, it was quite obvious that this version of Alec – the one who nervously peered up from beneath bloodshot eyes and scraggly stubble – had finally reached the end of his rope. Trouble was, if he was looking for sympathy or empathy or help easing his bruised and battered conscience, then he'd come to the exact wrong place to find it.

"I tried for hours, you know," Alec continued. "At least fifteen times. But her cell just rang and rang, and finally I just… stopped."

_Hours_.

That one word – that very descriptive, very _specific_ word – was enough to make Cal's blood run cold. And without fully understanding why he was doing so, he pulled out his cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open to check for any messages from Gillian.

"I mean, I get it. I do. She wants a divorce, and she doesn't love me anymore, and God… I can't blame her at all. Not after everything I've put her through – all the second chances, and all the lies. I blew it."

Alec was rambling; droning on and on about what a miserable bastard he was, but Cal had momentarily tuned it out to fight with his phone. He hadn't heard a call… had kept the bloody thing right by his side all morning… but it suddenly hit him that she'd never replied to his earlier text. The one he'd sent on the way to Zoe's. The one that explained where he'd be, and when he'd be back, and that he couldn't wait to see her. _That text_. And Gillian always replied. _Always_. And far too much time had passed for it to simply be a coincidence that she hadn't.

"I had her, and I lost her, and even though it's killing me… I know I deserve it. And that's why I came here. To find her. Because the guilt, it's… it's… eating me alive, you know? All night long, I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think about anything else. Hell, I can barely even breathe. And I need to come clean."

Cal was listening – really, he was. Something about guilt and being eaten alive, and as interesting as all of that was (_sarcasm intended_), Cal's more immediate concern was his own idiocy. Because apparently, his bloody phone had been turned off all morning.

That's right: _off_.

_As in_, Gillian wouldn't have been able to reach him if she needed to (and he had quite the sneaking suspicion that she'd already needed to), because he was a moron with fat, fumbling fingers who'd turned his brand new cell phone _off_ before sunrise, like come kind of technologic virgin who couldn't work the keys.

_Idiot, idiot, idiot. _

"I said something… something awful. Something that will wind up hurting her more than the any other mistake I've ever made, and even though I can't undo it…"

The bloody thing powered on within seconds, just as Alec was reaching the climax of his impromptu monologue and saying something about mistakes and wanting to undo them. Cal's attention was split. Half of him was listening – waiting for key words that would provoke him into action and demand that his fist land squarely in the other man's jaw – and the other half was busy mentally cursing his own ignorance, because _bloody hell_…

_Of course_ he'd hit 'cancel' instead of send. _Of course_ the message he'd sent to Gillian wasn't in his text log. And _of course_, a new one was. One _from_ Gillian. One that told him exactly _where_ she was, and exactly _what_ she was doing, and it made him wonder – with an air of dread and a sense of renewed panic – if her morning errand was, in fact, connected to whatever Alec was still trying to confess.

"Even though I can't undo it," he continued, "I really wish I could. Motherhood means more to Gillian than anything else in this world. _You_ know that, Cal. _You_ know it and _I_ know it, and it's her dream. It's _her_ dream, and I crushed it. And I just wanted to apologize. It's not enough. It's not even close, really, and I know that. _I do_. But I just thought maybe if she heard it from _me_… maybe if she heard the details straight from _my_ mouth, instead of hearing them from the agency… then maybe all of this wouldn't hurt her quite as bad."

Cal wanted to vomit. _Oh_, he seriously wanted to vomit. His eyes were glued to the words on the tiny screen – words that Gillian had written so bloody optimistically, mere hours earlier. Words that now took on an entirely new meaning… fit an entirely new perspective… and he struggled with how in bloody hell he would ever help her through it.

"_Decided to tackle those interruptions one by one," _Cal read_. "Attorney first, agency second. Will check in soon. Maybe we can meet for lunch. Miss you. -G."_

With a heavy heart and an all-consuming ache in the pit of his stomach, Cal ran his thumb over the screen – as if he were literally trying to touch Gillian's spirit through the letters she'd typed. He sighed and blinked… felt a fresh wave of anger overtake his entire body, beginning at the soles of his feet and radiating upward – past his heart and lungs, through every limb and back again, until the full weight of it settled heavy in both clenched fists.

And then he answered Alec's partial confession with only three short words: "You're too late."

* * *

**A/N: Very sorry to cut it off there, but this whole arc had grown to a staggering 12,000 words so I thought it best to do it in sections. Next chapter will pick up right here. Loker joins the party (to pass along Gillian's message), Cal's anger goes into overdrive, and Gillian hears the rest of the details about the horrible things Alec said. Stay tuned, guys - I'll have it posted by Friday. Thanks for reading!**


	42. Chapter 42

**A/N: Please note that there's a language warning in this chapter, by way of several F-bombs dropped mainly by Gillian. But there's a valid reason I included them; it's for the sake of comparison, mostly – to show the difference between what Alec did with those four women, and what she **_**almost**_** did with Cal. (Hopefully, that will make sense after you read the section.) Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

_Whatever reply Gillian had intended to say simply died in her head, because that word? Alone? It summed up everything she felt, everything she knew… every single stray emotion, impulse, and broken promise that coursed through her veins. It haunted her. Pulled at her gut, and tore fresh wounds along inches of skin that ached to be comforted in Cal's strong arms, and healed by his love._

_But he couldn't fix it. He couldn't heal her. No one could. And she knew that, now._

_So, Gillian blinked away the one lone tear that had managed to fall… stuffed her phone back into her purse… and slowly shook her head. "No, Ms. Cross. There's no one you can call."_

* * *

Gillian was no stranger to pain – both physical _and_ emotional.

From an alcoholic father and emotionally distant mother… to a marriage that began too early and lasted far too long… to dreams of a healthy pregnancy that culminated in the loss of a child she'd only barely gotten to love… she'd faced her fair share of demons, fought through countless trials, and had come out mostly unscathed.

But _this_ was entirely different. It was real and raw and deep and cavernous – threatening to pull her beneath the surface of her own unshed tears, until she inevitably suffocated. And despite every self-preserving instinct that told her _not_ to talk about it, Gillian couldn't help herself. She just couldn't.

She needed the truth.

"So… the drugs," she started. "I was correct, wasn't I? Alec… he told you about them? And _that's_ why she changed her mind? Because of the drugs?"

_Birth mother_. The correct term was '_birth mother_,' but Gillian couldn't bring herself to use it. A pronoun felt safer, somehow. It was less specific and more distant, and it was all she could do to string two words together without collapsing into a sobbing mess – much less try to do it with conspicuous, gut-wrenching truths like 'birth mother.' Those would come later. Much later. When her heart didn't hurt so badly, and every single breath she took didn't feel as though it might be her last.

Trust her, Gillian wanted Regina to say 'yes.' She wanted confirmation that the drug use was the _entire reason_ behind the agency's change of heart. Because _that part_ was fixable. After all, it was _Alec's_ addiction, not hers – cocaine was _Alec's_ demon, not hers. And chalk it up to one final 'Hail Mary' pass from her inner optimist or just good, old-fashioned stupidity… Gillian _wanted_ to believe that as long as she could prove she'd never _used_ or _sold_ or _breathed_ or _touched_ those drugs, then they wouldn't contaminate her chances of a solo adoption.

"Because whatever you need," Gillian continued, "whatever medical test, or blood work, or exam you want me to take, I'll do it. _Hell_, hook me up to a polygraph machine if you want. _Trust me_, Ms. Cross, I don't have anything to hide."

And just as her final word hit the air – just as she dared to ignore the burn in her eyes and the constriction in her lungs and have a tiny bit of faith that her Hail Mary pass might actually work – she saw it: the look on Regina's face that told her, _with certainty_, how very naive she'd been.

"For whatever it's worth, Gillian," Ms. Cross offered, "I tried to call you first. Three calls to your cell, and three to your office. And since you didn't answer, I called your husband. And according to him, you knew all about the drugs and probably should have divorced him a long time ago. So even though I do believe that you never used them yourself… the simple fact that you _chose_ to live with an addict speaks volumes. To our agency, as well as to the birth mother."

_Slight correction?_ As her incredibly bad luck would have it, the term 'naive' was a massive, _massive_ understatement. _No_, she was horrible and selfish and amoral and she _hated_ herself, because obviously – _obviously_ – while Regina Cross had been busy making three calls to her desk phone, and three calls to her cell phone, Gillian had been busy trying to have sex Cal.

_In her own office. _

While she was _still married_ to her drug addicted husband, who, incidentally, had already cheated on her with four (_count them – four_) different women, without facing any real consequences at all.

And then as soon as her thoughts spun things that way – to the fact that it was horribly unfair that Alec had _fucked_ four other women and she hadn't gotten to _make love_ to Cal – Gillian wanted to kick herself, because "this" was not about "that." Wrong time, wrong place… wrong _everything_.

No, she hated herself for even _thinking_ about sex. And then right on cue, an overwhelming wave of shame hit her squarely in the stomach. A fresh wave of tears began to flood her eyes, and this time she didn't even try to stop them. Instead_,_ she let them fall freely – content to live in the shame she'd brought upon herself, and face the consequences of her own selfish actions.

In the sudden silence, Regina sighed. And though the volume of her voice was shy and timid, the weight of her words rang loudly throughout the room. "I'm afraid there's no easy way for me to ask this question," she said gently. "But last night, when Mr. Foster told me that you were not having an affair with a man named Cal Lightman, was he telling the truth?"

_Oh_, Gillian wanted to _die_. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her, right there on the spot. Because the utter humiliation she now felt was indescribable. Absolutely gutted – that was as close as she could come. Absolutely gutted. And really, how could she possibly even _answer_ that question? There was no way to deny it. No _honest_ way, at least. _Yes_, she could argue logistics and try to explain that she and Cal had not had intercourse… that they had not been naked together… that they had not engaged in a _sexual_ affair.

And while each of those things _were_ factually true, _realistically_ _speaking_… they were inconsequential. They were technicalities, at best.

Because Gillian loved Cal – with her entire body, and with her entire heart – and the only thing that actually stopped her from moving forward _was_, ironically, the very phone call that could've changed everything. To deny her feelings for him… to lie about their relationship, and about what she wanted it to become, just felt _wrong_.

And so in the end, Gillian decided to let her silence serve as the only true answer she could give.

Giving a slight nod in understanding, Regina quickly continued. "Please understand that I phoned your husband expecting to give him the good news that both of you been chosen by a birth mother, and that your baby – _your baby_ – would be arriving in a matter of months, but _instead_… he answered the phone and went into a tirade about drug use, your possible affair, a number of problems in your marriage, and lastly, divorce. And while I know it _wasn't_ intentional, and I know that he didn't _deliberately_ ruin this, he _did_ force my hand. And he left me with no choice but to tell the biological family what I'd learned."

Drug use. Affair. Divorce.

In a different lifetime, Gillian could've taken those terms as ammunition; used them as a way to make Regina Cross see what a hateful, spiteful, weak man Alec Foster had become. She could've told explicit tales about all _four_ of his affairs… spoken about how he'd lost their whole life savings in his own personal war with cocaine… explained that divorce felt like freedom. Like she was finally reclaiming her life, and thinking about her happiness for a change, instead of living without it as some sort of self-imposed, compartmentalized punishment.

But she didn't.

She didn't mention the affairs… didn't try to justify her actions… didn't speak a single word about the money or the drugs or anything at all. She just sat there, trying to decide what came next. Where to go. How to move forward, without stumbling over her own selfishness or getting lost in an overwhelming sea of regret. Sadness claimed her spirit, and pain filled her heart, and the only thing she knew to do… _was run_.

Ten minutes later, she was behind the wheel again. And her inner optimist? The tiny voice that had thrown the Hail Mary pass and oh-so-stupidly thought everything might still be fixable? It spoke up again – loudly, just as soon as the car merged onto the freeway – in hopes that maybe, _just maybe_, Cal would find a way to dust off her shattered heart and put the pieces back together again.

* * *

_With a heavy heart and an all-consuming ache in the pit of his stomach, Cal ran his thumb over the screen – as if he were literally trying to touch Gillian's spirit through the letters she'd typed. He sighed and blinked… felt a fresh wave of anger overtake his entire body, beginning at the soles of his feet and radiating upward – past his heart and lungs, through every limb and back again, until the full weight of it settled heavy in both clenched fists. _

_And then he answered Alec's partial confession with only three short words: "You're too late._

* * *

"You're too late."

Cal was livid. Absolutely, overwhelmingly _livid_. Because that bastard had said it himself – he'd crushed her dream. Crushed it. _He_, Alec Foster, had done something so irrevocably _stupid_… so unforgivably, fantastically _awful_… that Gillian's chances at motherhood were probably ruined. God, he wanted to vomit. And punch things. And then vomit again. Because 'this' felt absolutely sickening. And unfair. And Gillian, of all people, deserved better.

That 'Truth or happiness' motto he fancied? In that moment, as it sarcastically sing-songed through his head, mocking and taunting and bloody laughing at him… Cal had never hated it more.

Gillian.

His Gillian.

He loved her… _but hadn't been able to tell her._ He wanted to _make love_ to her – to give her everything of himself, body and soul and heart and vulnerability… but they'd_ stopped._ And now that they'd finally gotten a real shot at making it work – a real, bloody shot at happiness – someone else stepped in and irrevocably crushed her biggest dream in a single blow. _Poof_.

_Truth or happiness… never both._

And so, Cal wanted only one thing: _answers_. He wanted to know what Alec had _said_, or _done_, or _thought_, or bloody _imagined_ that would've resulted in… _this_: this deplorable, wretched excuse of a man who was slumped on the sofa and looking to clear his own conscience, while Gillian was out there handling everything on her own.

_On her own._

Trust him, Cal wanted to _scream_. He quite literally wanted to scream at his own ineptitude, because _maybe_ – just _maybe_ – if he hadn't left his bloody phone switched off, then she wouldn't actually _be_ on her own. _Maybe_ she would've called him. _Maybe_ she would've texted, or emailed, or sent for a goddamned telegraph or blimp or _something_, just to reach him. Just to let him know that she _wasn't_ fine, and she _wasn't_ strong enough, and that she needed him.

She _needed_ him.

Yes, that's right, he'd say it again: _She needed him_, and yet there he stood. Rooted in ignorance, overwhelmed by helplessness, and just _itching_ to throw his fists at Alec's face. Repeatedly. Until blood spurted out of the wanker's nose, and bruising dotted his skin, and total _satisfaction_ ran through Cal's body at having been the one to finally make him pay.

_Maybe_…

_Bloody hell_, he _still_ hated that word. Hated the uncertainty of it. Hated the air of foreboding it brought. Hated the way it coated every limb with vulnerability, and left him waiting for an outcome that he could not control.

It. Was. Agonizing.

_And then_… it got worse.

"Gillian is going to kill me," Alec breathed – in a way that was completely self-centered. And when he was done speaking, Cal watched Alec's body drop sideways against the arm of the sofa – so that he wasn't quite upright, but he wasn't quite horizontal, either. Like a crumpled kite, all windblown and awkward and unable to fit the space it was designed to fill.

"She's definitely going to kill me," he continued. "I just wonder how long she'll make me suffer, first."

_Three… two… one…_

It took only three seconds – at _most_ – before every thought and impulse and individual _cell_ in Cal's body realized what Alec Foster had just said. That he was bloody _lounging_ there, drowning in a pool of his own pity and cloaked in well-deserved pain, and trying to gain sympathy for himself. For _himself_. _From Cal_, of all people. It was… insane.

_In other words_, Alec Foster had placed himself at the dead center of Cal's office, and then proceeded to spin his own twisted selfishness into an angle that would win him sympathy from the one man who bloody hated him more than anyone else in the world.

Cal was in love with Gillian – head over heels, body and soul, in every possible way – and unless Alec Foster had the IQ of pocket lint, _surely_ he knew that. Hell, _Gillian_ probably knew it too, and yet Cal couldn't tell her because she was still legally married to the bastard who now tried to manipulate some sympathy out of a situation where the only person who deserved it… was Gillian.

_Gillian_.

Not Alec.

So, it took another three seconds – at most – before Cal's right hand wrapped around the dingy neckline of Alec's old jumper, and he pulled. Hard. With one arm.

He pulled, and Alec crumbled, and Cal quite literally dragged him to his feet, until they were standing nose to nose. Cal's left hand shifted to Alec's shoulder, holding him upright and still while his right hand clenched and unclenched a tight fist. Those answers he needed?

The ones that would tell him what Alec had said, or done, or thought, or imagined? Cal was going to get them, one way or another. Even if he had to pound them out of Alec's lanky body one by one.

"She's in love with you, Lightman. Did you know that?"

How the man could even speak at all, Cal had no idea. Because somehow, the hand that was supposed to be gripping Alec's _shoulder_ had shifted higher, to wrap around his _throat_ instead. And Cal was squeezing – _literally squeezing_ – in a way that was equal parts scary and satisfying.

'In love.'

_Those words_ made Cal pause. They made him _stop_, just for a second. Just as his fingers pressed down against Alec's voice box with enough force to harm, rather than startle… with enough force to make his skin turn bright red as he struggled to breathe. And _when_ Cal stopped, everything else in the room stopped, too.

_Everything_.

Time, noise, breath, existence… all of it just stopped – or rather, _stilled_, long enough to make the whole lot feel as though it had been magnified at least ten fold. Every sensation, every thought, every impulse. _All of it_. Footsteps in the hallway rang as loud as thunderclaps. The ticking of a clock seemed absurdly out of place. But in the end, it was the knock on his door that finally made Cal step away.

Call it intuition, or experience, or plain old-fashioned _luck_, but the moment Eli Loker walked through the doorway and came face to face with what had _almost_ been a very violent scene, Cal knew he'd found the first of his answers.

"Doctor Foster called in a few hours ago," Loker sheepishly offered. His eyes darted between Cal and Alec equally, as if he knew he was about to deliver very valuable information, but he wasn't quite sure who needed it most. "She asked me to tell you that she had an appointment at the agency – wherever that is – with someone named Regina Cross."

_Regina Cross._

No, Cal had never heard that name. Not even once. But if Alec's reaction to it was any indication, then _he_ most certainly knew it very well. That's right: the tosser whined. He positively _whined_, like a little puppy who'd had his food dish taken away too soon. He _whined_ and _grumbled_ and _winced_, and Cal quite nearly reached for his throat again, just because he _could_.

Oh, he wanted to squeeze it. Wanted to choke the air right out of Ale Foster's pathetic, self-centered lungs until he turned blue this time, instead of red. And while visions of asphyxiation and bloodshed danced in his head, Cal watched the realization cross Loker's features as it finally sunk in that _yes_, the message Gillian had given him really _was_ that important, and _no_, he really did _not_ want to drag things out any further.

A bloody smart decision it was, indeed.

"She said that it would probably be quick and painless," Loker continued, "and that with a little luck, there would be one less interruption to worry about once she was finished. Whatever the hell _that_ means. Sorry Doctor Lightman, but she didn't elaborate."

'One less interruption…'

_Yes_, Cal knew exactly what that meant. Knew what had been on Gillian's mind when she made that particular comment. Knew that she'd been thinking about him, and how close they'd come to crossing…

Quickly shaking his head to clear that particular train of thought, lest it derail him any further, Cal turned to Loker with a heavy sigh. "Did she say anything else?" he tried. "Because if that odd look on your face is any indication, then I assume she _did_ say something, yeah? Something that probably means nothing to you, but might mean everything to me? So please. Even if you think it's irrelevant, tell me anyway."

Impromptu speech finished, Cal sighed again. He sounded desperate and out of sorts, but quite frankly… he didn't care. After all, he did not employ idiots, and if Loker and the rest of the staff hadn't already figured out that something extremely _non-platonic_ was brewing between their bosses, then they would soon enough. _And so_, he didn't give a toss about boundaries or lines or masks or political correctness or anything at all, save for getting as many answers as he could, from whoever the bloody hell would volunteer them.

"Coffee," Loker offered. "She said that because she was in such a good mood and feeling nostalgic, she'd make a coffee run on her way back. But listen, there's at least a hundred coffee shops in town, and unless you're a face reading scientist _who is also psychic_, then I seriously doubt…"

Nostalgic. Coffee. No, Cal wasn't psychic, but he was an expert at all things Gillian Foster, and despite Loker's obvious lack of faith, he knew exactly where Gillian had gone. Or rather, exactly where she'd _intended_ to go, before a woman named Regina Cross singlehandedly delivered the news that would break her heart. Cal's only hope was that she'd still be there when he arrived.

Loker was still droning on and on – something about an office bet, and why both of the Group's bosses had sounded so distracted that morning – but Cal wasn't listening. Instead, he held his cell phone to his ear and _willed_ Gillian to answer. She might've avoided fifteen calls from Alec, but maybe – _just maybe_ – she'd answer one of his.

_(And yes, he still hated that word.)_

When it kicked over to her voice mail, though, Cal knew he had no other choice but to trust his instinct, and trust that his unconditional love would be enough to help her through this, after all.

"You're wasting your time, Lightman," Alec said. "Trust me… she won't answer."

Trust me?

_Trust me?_

By some bloody miracle, Cal had gotten so distracted with the phone call and with Eli's nonsensical rambling that he'd actually forgotten – just for a few seconds – that Alec was still in the room. And then, the idiotic bastard decided to make himself completely obvious by speaking two of the stupidest words that any man in his position could've ever uttered: 'Trust me.'

Cal felt like… like an angry bull, about to charge at the nearest red object in his path, and there stood Alec Foster, dressed in head to toe scarlet and waving a crimson flag. It felt like a _challenge_. And so…he bloody well took it.

_Gladly_.

Striking when Alec least expected it, Cal effortlessly wrapped his hand around the younger man's throat with enough force to bruise. He gripped and squeezed against clammy skin – overtaken by anger and delighting in the raw _fear_ which shot across every single inch of Alec's face as he fought to breathe. Revenge had never felt sweeter.

"Doctor Lightman… Doctor Lightman, _please_. I think maybe you should just…"

_Loker_.

_Yes_, that was Loker's voice. And it wasn't until Cal heard the underlying level of panic it held, that he realized manual strangulation in front of an audience probably wasn't his smartest move – regardless of how satisfying it might feel.

So, Cal relaxed his grip… he took a deep breath… and then he shifted his hand _away_ from Alec's throat and back onto the neckline of his jumper, gathering the faded material in his angry palm. He held the younger man steady. Drew him close. Clenched and unclenched his free hand into a tight fist, preparing to unleash it into a nose, or a gut, or a jaw the minute Eli Loker left the room.

"Are you really sure that Doctor Foster would want you to do this?" Loker shakily tried. "I mean, you can't read him if he's… broken, can you?"

It wasn't a joke. Cal knew it wasn't a joke – knew Eli was as serious as a bloody heart attack, and that his word choice had been intentional. Trouble was… Cal didn't care. He _did_ wanted to break Alec. Literally. Wanted to hit him, and hurt him, and inflict physical pain to counter Gillian's emotional pain. And so a micro-second later – as Loker's words hung between them and a fresh wave of fear surged across Alec's face – Cal knew exactly what he needed to say.

"Simple solution, Loker," he answered. "Answers first. _Pain_ second."

* * *

**A/N: And yet again, the next chapter will pick up right here. With pain. (For Alec, not Cal.) Thanks for reading!**


	43. Chapter 43

**A/N: Way back in chapter 2, Gillian pulled Cal out of the bar and dropped a line about letting him return the favor someday. Well, many of you sent comments and messages asking for him to do exactly **_**that**_** (repay the favor). I'd always planned that to happen, and so it begins here (and will encompass the entirety of #44, too). **

**Apologies for the chapter length. I think it's the longest one I've ever posted in any story, but I didn't want to break it up since all the tension between Cal and Alec finally comes to a head in this installment. **

**As always, thanks for the feedback / messages / alerts on this story – I can't even begin to accurately tell you how much it means to me. Cyberhugs to all of you, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

_Sadness claimed her spirit, and pain filled her heart, and the only thing she knew to do… _was run_._

_Ten minutes later, she was behind the wheel again. And her inner optimist? The tiny voice that had thrown the Hail Mary pass and oh-so-stupidly thought everything might still be fixable? It spoke up again – loudly, just as soon as the car merged onto the freeway – in hopes that maybe, _just maybe_, Cal would find a way to dust off her shattered heart and put the pieces back together again. _

* * *

The first call came just as Gillian pulled off the freeway – when she was maybe twenty minutes away from her destination, and her inner optimist breathed a sigh of relief at the thought that maybe, _just maybe_, it was Cal. Maybe he'd gotten her message, put all the pieces together like some kind of face-reading psychic, and was on his way to get her at that very minute.

But in the end, she just frowned at the ringtone and tried to stay focused on the road. On the traffic. On the landmarks. On _every tiny detail_ of _every single building_ that she passed, out of some kind of twisted, self-preserving impulse _not_ to look at the screen, lest she see Alec's name staring back at her for a sixteenth call, instead.

And so… she did not answer. She just _drove_.

Tears fell as she passed the daycare – with its bright, colorful playground, its windows adorned in handmade decorations, and the small throng of mothers in the parking lot, who pushed strollers and carried diaper bags and looked so damned carefree. _Oh_, how she envied them. Each and every one.

Her eyes burned a few blocks later, when traffic congestion brought her to a stop in front of a small public park she'd never noticed before. It was crowded with toddlers and nannies… grandparents and young moms… even one or two dads dressed in suits or khakis, who'd stopped by for a quick lunch with their stay-at-home wives. And trust her, if ever there was a single moment – a single, solitary _second_ – when Gillian wished she could turn the science _off_, it was then. _Right then_. Because seeing all that truth? All of that _normalcy_? The sheer volume of things that _everyone else_ was fortunate enough to take for granted, and that she now knew she'd never have?

It was just _cruel_.

The second call came just as she reached a stoplight, when her eyes were still burning from a mix of tears, cosmetics, shame, and self-loathing and she simply could _not_ have spoken if she'd tried. Not a single word. So, she glared daggers into the phone – hating the pretty little wallpaper icon and the mockingly cheerful ringtone with an irrational fury – and just as it fell silent, she heaved it across the car. That's right: Gillian snatched it up off the console, drew her arm back, and threw it as far forward as she could, watching it bounce off the passenger side of the windshield with a muffled little thud.

Stupid shatterproof case. Stupid car. Stupid… _everything_.

_Oh_, she was raging. She'd gone from devastated heartbreak, to shame, to… _this_ (whatever the hell it was – a tantrum, perhaps?)… after just a few blocks, and she felt out of control. Helpless and hopeless and so damned angry that she wanted to scream. _Literally_. At least Cal had gotten the satisfaction of watching his phone shatter into a half-dozen pieces that night in the bar. That was something. It was… well, it was _action_, rather than _failure_. It was a physical manifestation of everything he felt. A release. A pressure valve, of sorts.

_Cal's_ unprotected cell phone had met a cinderblock wall that night and immediately shattered – and _her_ sensibly padded, damn-near-bubble-wrapped phone _bounced_ off the interior of her car. How pitiful. How utterly, utterly pitiful.

_Hell_, she couldn't even have a tantrum properly.

When Cal's world shattered_, he _had gone to a bar. A proper, smoke-filled bar – where he drowned his misery in scotch and petulance until she'd come to take him home. And now she was going… _where_, exactly? To a coffee shop? A stupid _coffee shop_? In hindsight, the whole idea _sounded_ as stupid as it felt.

'_Nostalgic_.'

As the light turned green, Gillian punched the gas and laughed aloud as she remembered how naively cheerful she'd sounded when she'd spoken that word to Loker: nostalgic. She knew it would mean nothing to him, but likely everything to Cal, and it was a stupidly innocent attempt to convey her emotions and her mindset without using actual words. Kind of like… _well_, it was kind of like her way of pulling a "Lightman," really – only with vague terms and social niceties, rather than cranky faces and awkward body language. And yes, she now knew it was foolish. That she likely couldn't trust Loker to even _deliver_ the message, let alone trust Cal to _decipher_ it, let alone… _oh_, why in the world didn't she just go to a bar?

Scotch… whiskey… maybe one of those Vodka drinks with the chocolate syrup and whipped cream – now _those_ would work. They would work quite nicely, in fact.

But a coffee shop? "_Their_" coffee shop, at that? What in the hell was she supposed to do once she got there, anyway? Drown her sorrows in chocolate chips and lattes? Eat her weight in pound cake and pastries? Sit at "_their_" booth for old times' sake and reminisce about the first time they'd seen it – back when The Lightman Group was just a pipe dream and Cal had looked utterly horrified at how enthusiastically she'd devoured something he'd dubbed "a diabetic coma just waiting to happen?"

Trust her, Gillian did not want to smile. Fought it tooth and nail. She squinted and grimaced, and gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled force as she guided the car into a parking space and waited for the urge to pass.

But… it didn't.

'_Diabetic coma.'_

Her luck was total shit, it seemed: _of course_ her brain picked _that moment_ to come up with one of the only memories that could actually make her smile: Cal's partially impressed, partially disgusted expression when their waitress delivered a slice of cake that was – and she quoted him again – "filled with enough sugar to kill a horse." His lip had turned upward, and his eyes had grown wide, and everything he'd taught her about behavior studies and micro-expression was suddenly on full display. Everything from surprise, to attraction, to humor, to shock ran across his face in turn, and she was blessed with a front row seat to watch the whole show. He'd been a living, breathing study of everything he wanted her to learn and she was _hooked_. Right then and there.

And with that memory alone… _she smiled_.

That's right: Gillian Foster sat in the parking lot of a coffee shop – less than an hour after she'd had her heart broken by her soon-to-be-ex-husband's selfishness and her own bad choices – and she actually smiled.

She smiled and she laughed, and it felt good. Really, really good.

And then all too soon… _it stopped_.

Laughter gave way to guilt, which gave way to anger, which gave way to more tears, which meant that just a few moments after Gillian parked the car, she stormed out of it. She stomped around the front end to retrieve her well-padded cell phone from the uppermost corner of the passenger side dash, then walked toward the entrance with a neutral expression as she willed her emotions to settle. The whole experience felt like a roller coaster ride – jarring her from joy, to sadness, to despair on an endless loop. She was sick, and miserable, and she just wanted it all to _stop_.

And most of all… she wanted _Cal_. Trouble was, she didn't trust herself to actually be able to make the phone call and _ask for him_, without collapsing into a fit of tears and sounding like a blubbering mess. No, as selfish as it sounded (and as unlikely as it was to actually happen), Gillian wanted _him_ to find _her_. She wanted him to _find_ her, and _hold_ her, and tell her that somehow… everything would be alright.

* * *

_Yes, that was Loker's voice. And it wasn't until Cal heard the underlying level of panic it held, that he realized manual strangulation in front of an audience probably wasn't his smartest move – regardless of how satisfying it might feel. _

_So, he relaxed his grip… he took a deep breath… and then he shifted his hand away from Alec's throat and back onto the neckline of his jumper, gathering the faded material in his angry palm. He held the younger man steady. Drew him close. Clenched and unclenched his free hand into a tight fist, preparing to unleash it into a nose, or a gut, or a jaw the minute Eli Loker left the room._

"_Maybe you should just…" Loker repeated._

_But it was too late._

_A micro-second later, as a fresh wave of fear surged across Alec's features, Cal cut him off with three very precise words: _"Loker. Get. Out."

* * *

By nature, Cal Lightman was not an unreasonable man. He wasn't irrational or violent… didn't make a habit of throwing punches or getting into bar fights… and for the most part, he was content to simply 'read' people. To let his science find the answers. To intimidate an aggressor with hands-_off_ behavior and a bulldoggish attitude that often left a much stronger impact than he could've garnered with his fists.

And most of the time, it worked. Along with a natural ability to push all the right (or wrong) buttons, he'd also learned to invade someone's personal space so effectively – so completely – that they just cracked. They backed off, rather than allow him to continue. It was 'Fight or Flight' in reverse, so to speak: Cal was the catalyst that pushed someone else to act, until they either fought (_verbally, physically, or both_), or they flew (think Zoe, several imploded friendships, and a string of disgruntled clients).

If he'd ever really thought about it – meaning, if he'd ever thought about it in terms of psychology and all things Freudian – Cal might've realized that part (_if not all_) of his behavior was a survival instinct all its own. A product of a childhood filled with an abusive father, a mentally damaged mother, and enough bullying from his schoolmates to last five lifetimes. Somewhere between the ages of ten and sixteen, he'd learned _to push_ rather than _be pushed_… to _outwit_ an opponent (be they parent, teacher, peer, or random stranger), rather than strong-arm them… to push every single ounce of his fear so far down inside himself, that fueled rather than hindered him.

That's not to say Cal didn't have his fair share of physical confrontations – he did. He'd been thrown out of bars by the scruff of his neck… had his nose broken twice in his formative years… was no stranger to black eyes and stitching… and he'd long ago learned to keep a well-stocked first aid kit in his car (_and in his office_), so he'd be well prepared for the next time his big mouth got him into trouble with a mark. Because it always did.

_But_…

In every case – save those that put a loved one's health or happiness in danger – Cal always preferred to _finish_ a fight, rather than _start_ one. That was the key. The 'thing' that kept him on the good side of the fence, and allowed him to think of himself as a _man_ (flawed, but fully functional), rather than a _bully_ (like his father always had been).

_This case_, however, was different. He was standing in the middle of his bloody office, in the middle of a workday, with one hand itching to strangle Alec Foster while the other balled into a fist and ached to hit him instead. Reasonability had fled the table as soon as the wanker uttered the words "trust me."

As in, "_You're wasting your time, Lightman_. Trust me… _she won't answer_."

_As in_, 'I know Gillian better than you do, Lightman. Always have. Always will.'

The former might've been what Alec actually _said_, but the latter is what Cal _heard_. Loud and clear. The implication seemed to crawl right into his brain, until it found his self-control switch and flicked it "off." And then he didn't give a toss about anything, save for causing Alec as much physical pain as possible.

Was it the _smart_ choice? No, not even close. Because Loker was right – Cal couldn't bloody well read the man if he was broken.

But was it the _natural_ choice? Yes, it was. It was instinctual, and impulsive, and downright primitive. Every stray thought in Cal's body streamlined into a singular _urge_ as he watched the fear continue to spread over Alec's features, flowing even faster now that Loker had left the room. And even though it was Foster's face he physically saw, in many ways… _it wasn't_.

Crazy though he knew it sounded, there was a split second – just a tiny, microscopic flash – in which Cal could've _sworn_ he saw his father instead. Hell, he could practically _smell_ the man's memory. And it was a scent that made his lip curl in disgust, as bile rose up the back of his throat and his balls bloody well drew themselves up _into_ his body, because he just _knew_ what was coming next: pain and suffering and shouting and tears, all because the pub hadn't cut the old man off after three rounds, and the only outlet he'd ever known was the collision of his fists into the bodies of his wife and son.

_Crazy_.

Oh yes, that's _exactly_ how Cal felt.

_Absolutely crazy._

And when his vision cleared a beat later – when he saw his own hands mere heartbeats away from causing permanent damage to a man that was most definitely _not_ his bastard father – Cal felt a chill travel the length of his spine. It shook him, from head to toe and back again, because even though he now _saw_ reality… he didn't want to respect it.

Yes, he was sane enough to know _where_ he was, and _what_ he was doing, and to recognize that it was _Alec's_ face in front of him, wearing his _fear_-slash-_panic_-slash-_guilt_ like a bloody neon sign, just daring Cal to 'read' the motivation behind it. But he was _also_ sane enough to find the parallels between what papa Lightman had done to Louise, and weigh them against what _Alec_ had done to _Gillian_. Pain, heartbreak, misery, and depression… _they_ were the antithesis of unconditional love. _They_ were the core opposite of everything Cal wanted women to know.

He'd failed with his mother – had failed to see her pain, written as plainly across her face as any other emotion he'd ever 'read' – but he was determined_ not _fail with Gillian. Not this time. Not when he still held the power for revenge, and every single cell in his body screamed for him to just keep on squeezing and bloody take it, already.

_Christ_, he didn't even know what Alec had _done_. Not specifically. _No, no_… he knew the bastard had done _something_ that crushed Gillian's chances at adoption, but aside from a handful of suspicions, Cal had no idea what it bloody _was_. But as luck would have it, but Alec chose that particular moment – when Cal had decided that he didn't really _care_ what it bloody was – to fire the only statement that could've made him see _reason_, rather than _red_.

"Come clean," Alec rasped. "When I said I needed to come clean, I meant it. So go ahead: read me. I don't want to lie anymore."

Now _that_ was unexpected. It was so far out of character for a man like Alec Foster – one who'd built his entire professional life around his squeaky clean image – to voluntarily submit to the only man in Washington who could shatter it with just a few simple questions. But he did. He bloody well did. And rather than being appreciative, Cal was suspicious.

_Extremely_ suspicious.

Because the _fear_-slash-_panic_-slash-_guilt _was still there, in bright, flashing neon… and obviously, it was a double edged sword. Use it, and Cal would get his answers. But as soon as he had them, Alec would get his relief. He'd still suffer – self-imposed and justified though the pain undoubtedly was – but he'd be able to blame _Cal's_ words and science actions for the brunt of it.

_The translation?_ If Cal got his answers, and then promptly broke Alec's nose or blacked his eye because of his _reaction_ to those answers, then Cal became the villain, not Alec. Alec would play the victim, and Cal would be the bastard who'd exploited him, and everything in the younger man's world could right itself again, rather than continue on its pear shaped path toward crazy town.

In a sense, Alec was baiting him. Dangling revenge over his head like a prize, and just daring Cal to take it. And Cal saw it – he did. He _saw_ what Alec was trying to do… but in the end, he didn't care.

_He. Did. Not. Care._

Because all he wanted… was _answers_.

So, he brought both hands to Alec's shoulders – jostling him deliberately, because the wanker deserved it. And then in trademark Lightman style, he began to study the face in front of him with focused intensity, looking for every sign and every clue and every tiny, miniscule 'tell' that the muscles made. They were all there, of course. All the puzzle pieces he needed – every 'tell' and every answer. He just needed to put them together.

Crime, infidelity, alcohol, and drugs – those were the big ones: the most obvious reasons why such a normally pompous and proper man now looked like dung. Domestic abuse was the other, but luckily that option never even entered Cal's brain, because… _well_, because he would've seen those signs ages ago. Would've noticed Gillian dressing differently, or seen bruising, or noticed marks on her skin as it was revealed to him during both of their ill-timed interludes. So… just those four.

_Thank God._

"What's wrong, Lightman?" Alec prodded, with a voice still raspy from his near strangulation. "Are you too _scared_ to look? Too afraid of what you might see, once you finally start asking questions?"

Any idiot would've known that those words were driven by false bravado, rather than a genuine interest in coming clean. Alec was daring Cal – challenging his science and his manhood, all for the sake of drawing him further into the fight. Which was completely _insane_, because surely Alec realized that _he_ would be the one with the broken nose, or swollen jaw, or blackened eye – or all three. So, it was all part of the dare. Just a larger chunk of 'bait' thrown into the mix, in hopes that Cal would finally just snap and give him what he was looking for: an excuse to blame someone else for his pain.

But he didn't. _Not yet_.

Cal still grasped him by the shoulders… still walked that fine line between falling forward into physical violence, and backing off in favor of his science… and Alec must've sensed it. Because in the next breath, just as Cal was driving himself crazy wondering what vile things the bastard had _done_, or _said_, or _thought_, or _screwed_, Alec pulled himself upright – fully upright, so that his height over Cal's was a visible advantage – and sneered.

That's right: _he sneered._

He sneered and Cal glared, and Alec was so busy with his twisted little self-serving game of cat and mouse that he did not notice the raw _fire_ in Cal's eyes. The one that would've told him – if only he'd seen it – that he'd just made a huge mistake. _As in_, massive. _As in_, Alec's arrogant sneer might've been the proverbial match… but the _words_ he was about to speak?

As luck would have it… _those_ were the fuse.

"For a man who makes a living "seeing" everything, you really missed the mark when it comes to Gillian, didn't you?" he taunted. "All the secrets she's kept. All the lies she's told herself. All the pain she's swallowed, just because of what I did over, and over, and over again. Trust me, Lightman… she won't voluntarily breathe a word of it. Not to you – not to anyone. And what I don't understand is how you missed it. All this time. All these years you _claimed_ to know her – hell, the woman fell in love with you and you still can't see it, can you? Not even a little bit. So maybe I got it right the first time, then. Maybe you really are scared to see the real Gillian. Maybe you're afraid that you can't love her if she isn't as perfect as you always _assumed_ she was."

_Three… two… one… _boom_._

Alec Foster might've had the height advantage, but Cal put him to shame in terms of strength. It was raw and explosive, and when he unleashed it – when his hands shifted _away_ from Alec's shoulders and back _onto_ his neck – he did so with wild ferocity. Cal pulled hard, instantly knocking the tall bastard off balance as he crumbled at the waist and fell into an awkward slouch. And then it was _Cal's_ turn to sneer, as every last trace of cockiness fled Alec's features in order to make room for his other go-to expression: _fear_.

So, there they stood: Cal, with both hands on Alec's neck and wielding total control… and Alec, crumpled and slouching, and looking as though he finally realized how bloody _stupid_ it was to ever have provoked Lightman into action. They were a study in extremes – from determination and cowardice, to resolve and regret. And, of course, the fear; Alec was drowning in it, while Cal walked on dry ground and refused to bend at all – not even to throw the younger man a life preserver.

And _that_ emotion – that one very telling, _very specific_ emotion – is what Cal opted to exploit first: the fear.

"What's with the fear, Foster?" he spat. "Seems you're a bit fixated on it, yeah? I mean, look at you. It's written all over your face right now – hell, you're practically ready to piss your pants – and yet you keep using _those words_ to describe _me_. Fear. Afraid. Scared. Gillian calls that 'projecting,' you know. Claims it's what wankers like you do when they want to feel a bit better about their own pathetic weaknesses. And don't get me wrong, it's not _just_ about fear. Depends on the patient, yeah? Sometimes it's intelligence, sometimes it's masculinity, but in your case… it's fear. That's your Achilles' heel. The fear. That's a big one, that is. A big label. A big gun, so to speak – at least as far the world of psychiatry is concerned. Lucky for you, though, that's _Gillian's_ specialty, not mine."

Cal had repeated that word deliberately – said it over and over again, just to get a reaction. And right on cue, he got it. He watched every single muscle in Alec's face and body contract and react as he tried to keep the fallout to a minimum. But it didn't work. Not at all.

Because Cal saw_ everything_.

"Fear," Cal repeated. Just because he _could_, and because he fully enjoyed the twinge of emotional pain that crossed Alec's face _each_ _and every time_ he heard it. "It could be there for any number of reasons, really. Trouble at work… trouble in the sack… trouble in your bank account… could be all, or none, or any combination of each. That's the tricky bit, yeah? Trying to decipher why it's there, and what it's meant to hide."

_Hide_.

As soon as Cal said that word, Alec's breathing changed. It went from slow and steady, to erratic and shallow in a micro-second, and then – _then_ – the bastard tried to pull away. He literally struggled against Cal's grip and tried to right himself… tried to re-gain the upper hand when, by all rights, he'd relinquished it the moment he'd even suggested this game. "Tried" being the operative word, there, because predictably_… he failed_.

"Hit a nerve there, didn't I?" Cal continued. "Seems you're definitely hiding something. Something bad enough to keep you awake at night, you said. Something bad enough to crush Gillian's dream. Something you're absolutely convinced she'd never tell anyone – including me – and I really need to tell you, mate: you're total _crap_ at being ambiguous. I said it earlier, and I'll say it now: there are only a handful of things that make a man fall this far, this fast. Heartbreak… crime… gambling… and drugs, to name most. So whatever it is you _think_ you're hiding, believe me: somehow, it's connected to that short list. And I _will_ find it."

A baseline. Cal needed to get a baseline. Needed to ask something that was _related_ to his marriage with Gillian, but about which Alec _wasn't_ inclined to lie. Once he established that baseline, everything else could build from it. So, Cal didn't overthink it. He just opened his mouth, and trusted his instincts.

"D'you hit her?" he said simply. Short, sweet, and straight to the point – no holds barred.

And thankfully – _thankfully_ – Alec gasped in repulsion. Which meant his answer was a '_no_,' then. A big, fat, wonderful '_no_,' just as Cal had suspected.

So far, so good.

"Right, then," he acknowledged. "No physical abuse. Which brings me to my next question: D'you cheat on her? Sleep around a bit? Shag some random blonde on your desk or in the backseat of your car, and leave Gillian none the wiser for any of it?"

_Cheat… blonde… backseat…. 'none the wiser_.'

_Those_ were the words that made Alec flinch. Infidelity it was, then – and in the back of his own car, at that. Sadly, the only _really_ surprising tidbit Cal had just learned was the fact that Gillian had apparently known about the other woman for quite some time.

"So Gillian knew about the affair, then," Cal continued. He was still studying Alec's reaction… still looking for clues that would lead him in the right direction, so he understood as much of the story as possible. The whole thing made him feel absolutely filthy, but they'd already started down this path and there wasn't a chance in hell he was going to drop the subject, now.

Alec hadn't spoken in several long minutes – partly because he was a wanker, and partly because he couldn't easily take a full breath, thanks to Cal's ever-tightening hands around his neck. But when he finally _did_ decide to speak, his admission took Cal completely by surprise.

"She knew about all _four_ of them."

Call it temporary insanity, or permanent stupidity, or just plain exhaustion, but Alec volunteered that particular detail like he was bloody _proud_ of it. Like he wore the number as a badge of honor, rather than a cloak of shame. And trust him, Cal wanted to vomit. Because the idea that this bastard had been so… so… _heartless_ as to treat Gillian _that badly_ made him think that perhaps he'd been too conservative with his earlier assumptions.

At worst case, Cal had assumed Alec had an affair, maybe did some gambling on the side, maybe battled alcoholism or had gotten himself into trouble with some DUI charges or a hit and run. All of that was certainly enough to make an adoption agency pull the rug out from under their feet, and it was _also_ enough to shame Gillian into silence, given her father's history of alcohol abuse.

But _four_ women? That was insane. It was reckless and spiteful and downright cruel, and Cal hated him for it. Hated. With a passion. _As in_, wanted to throw him right through the wall and laugh as Alec's body crumpled into a broken, bloody heap. But he didn't.

_Not yet._

Instead, he opted to trust the science first… and dole out punishment second.

"So, it's a '_no'_ to domestic abuse, and a big, fat '_yes'_ to the fact that you shoved your pathetically small prick into four equally pathetic other women, then. Right?" he spat. _Oh_, he was furious. So overwhelmingly angry that he opted to go right for the jugular on the next question – just so they could hurry this thing along and get to the finish line.

"What else, then?" he prompted. "Was it drugs? Maybe a little ecstasy… a little pot? D'you spend late nights with your office mates doing heroin, or dropping acid, or snorting coke?"

_Coke_.

Bloody hell, there it was: the answer Cal did not want to see. It was staring right back at him in the form of Alec's sagging body and pathetically exhausted face – the one that might as well have had 'guilty as charged' written across it in giant flashing letters. Infidelity and drug abuse. And _cocaine_, at that. How utterly, utterly cruel. The man would've been kinder to rip Gillian's heart right out of her chest and stomp on it, than to put her through years _(oh, bloody hell… how many years?) _of neglect, and the pain of four _(count them)_ separate affairs, and the horrid nightmare that drug addiction would've inevitably brought.

What a selfish, pathetic, weak _bastard_.

And the fact that Gillian would've been able to see it? All those lies Alec told her… all the secrets he'd tried to keep? She would've seen them all just as easily as Cal had seen them; would've been ashamed of herself for escaping a childhood spent with one addict, and winding up married to another.

All those times he'd warned her about compartmentalizing – _oh_, he felt like an idiot. Like an insensitive prick, because he hadn't seen her truth. Hadn't seen the depth of what she'd hidden away, or understood _why_, or made much of an attempt to help her at all, save for a handful of veiled comments about how hard it would be to raise a child by herself, and how she ought to think about her own happiness for a change.

_Idiot, idiot, idiot._

For a very real moment, Cal thought he was actually going to vomit right there all over Alec's shoes. Because now that he had all of the information… now that all the puzzle pieces were exposed and had begun to assemble themselves in his mind… he bloody _hated_ the picture they formed.

In the very next breath, Cal's hands fell away from Alec's neck as if he'd been burned. He didn't care about revenge or violence or putting his fist through anyone's face… he didn't care about anything at all, save for Gillian. _His_ Gillian. _His Gillian,_ who'd quite likely gotten her heart broken by whatever her pathetic, drug addicted bastard of a husband had told some woman named Regina Cross, and all he wanted to do was _talk to her_. He just wanted to tell her that he knew where she was (_thanks to that message she'd left with Loker_), and that he was on his way. That she needed to wait for him… to stay there. To sit in their booth and order the most ridiculously oversized, overpriced, oversweet chocolate thing she could find on the menu, and that he'd be there with bells on, just as she'd been there for him in that bar.

Cell phone in hand, he tried calling her for a second time. It rang once, twice, three times, and then – just as he'd expected – it switched to voice mail. She _still_ wasn't answering; was still out there alone and heartbroken. And why in bloody _hell_ was he even standing there, wasting time with Alec Foster when he _should've_ sprinted to his car the moment Loker delivered that "nostalgia" filled message?

It bore repeating: _idiot, idiot, idiot._

Trust him, Cal now wanted to throw _himself_ through the wall. To punish _himself_ for all the things he hadn't _seen_, or _done_, or _said_ that could've helped her. And just as he shoved his phone back into his pocket and pulled his car keys out… just as he began to stalk toward his office door with one eye on the clock and his entire heart on his sleeve… everything got worse.

_Oh, so much worse._

Because now that Alec had gained some distance and had his conscience partially cleared, the weak and mostly-silent bastard that he'd _been_ mere moments earlier transformed back into the arrogant snake Cal had always known. The only difference now was the costume: jumper and jeans, instead of wingtips and suit. Apparently, this leopard _did_ change his spots; he just didn't change the ferocity of his bite.

"Regina Cross called me last night," Alec suddenly volunteered. "That's the woman Gillian went to see this morning. The woman from the agency. The _same_ woman who tried to reach Gill on her office line – several times, I'm told – and then phoned me, instead."

_Correction?_ The phrase '_oh, so much worse_,' suddenly felt like a massive, _massive_ understatement, and Cal seriously thought he might faint. Everything about Alec's word choice, body language, and posture made him feel dizzy – as if the entire room had suddenly gone pear shaped. And the only possible explanation for why he was voluntarily confessing everything now, was that he truly did want to provoke Cal into violence – just so he had someone besides himself to blame. Alec was shifting from victim to villain and back again so bloody quickly that it made Cal's head spin, and all he wanted to do was make it _stop_.

"She phoned me, but – as luck would have it – I made the horrible assumption that it was actually Bill Jacobs calling to tell me more about your little lunch date with _my wife," _Alec continued. "And so, I snapped. I mean, how the hell was I supposed to know that some woman I'd never even spoken to before was calling to talk to me about birth mothers and babies, right? I didn't know. I didn't even _guess_. I just reacted. I shouted into the phone about drug use and divorce, and the fact that I didn't actually _think_ that Gillian was fucking you, and then…"

If the tosser had just stopped there… if he'd just been able to quit while he was ever-so-slightly ahead… then maybe Cal would've just left it alone. But he didn't stop. He didn't even come close. No, all Alec did – _all he did_ – was pause long enough to regroup his thoughts and let Cal think the worst of the storm had passed.

And _that's_ when it happened. When Cal's hand was on the doorknob… when he was mere _seconds_ away from sprinting out of the office and into his car… Alec let loose with the worst possible thing anyone could've ever said in that moment. It was something so vile – so horribly, unforgivably cruel – that the only saving grace about it was the fact that Gillian wasn't there to hear it herself.

"You know, for _years_ I've managed to convince Gill that everything was her fault. That _she_ was the reason we couldn't get pregnant. That she was, I don't know… _broken_ or something. She bought it hook, line, and sinker, too… believed every word I said. She cried every month. Made herself sick with worry. Never even once asked herself if maybe, _just maybe_, the cocaine had anything to do with my potency. No, she took the whole thing on her own shoulders. _Voluntarily_. And you know what, Lightman? I'm glad. Because deep down, I never really wanted to have a child with her in the first place."

There was a split second, then – just a tiny flash of clarity – when Cal realized what he was about to do. When he knew, with one hundred percent certainty, that every single fear he'd ever had about turning into his father was absolutely justified. _But_…

But it was gone in a flash, and Cal couldn't bring himself to care about reason or clarity or his father or anything at all, save for the single, overpowering desire to cause Alec Foster _pain_. As much pain as he'd inflicted upon Gillian. As much pain as it was physically possible to produce with just his bare hands.

And so it took three seconds – at most – for Cal to cross the room and wrap his left hand around Alec's throat once again, pressing down on the clammy column with the full intention to harm. He squeezed over and over again, in erratic, irregular patterns that caused unbridled panic to bloom across every single square inch of Alec's body as he struggled to take a normal breath.

_That part_ was intentional. That level of deliberately unhinged _wrath_. It was… familiar, and Alec deserved it, and Cal _knew_ it was wrong – could see himself almost from a third person perspective, as he walked the fine line between madness and justification in the shadow of his father's footsteps. He _knew_ it was wrong, but he couldn't seem to stop it until several beats later when he finally _blinked_.

That's right: Cal blinked and looked _away_ from Alec's bluish skin, letting his eyes fall onto the object that stood directly behind them, on one of the shelves near his desk. It was Gillian's face, staring at him from behind a tiny pane of glass inside plain metal frame, within a photograph he'd always loved. It was _their_ photograph – one of the first they'd ever taken, back when the Group had just gotten off the ground and they were still doing paperwork in his kitchen and her car. Back when he'd seen how beautiful she was… had felt the stirring in his heart that warned him to tighten down his mask and stay well behind their Line, lest they both find themselves staring down barrel of two shattered marriages.

_Jesus_, he'd been lying to himself all along. He could see it now – he'd loved her, even then.

Another blink brought his attention back to Alec, and every ounce of anger he felt began to morph into something different. Something manageable. Something _less_ like his father's shadow, and _more_ like the man he'd always known himself to be: the one who preferred to _finish_ fights, rather than start them.

Alec had started it. In a sense, he'd thrown the first punch – with the infidelity, and the drugs, and the horribly cruel comments about being glad to see Gillian suffer. And so… Cal was _more than willing_ to throw the second.

Trust him, the bastard did not see it coming. No, as soon as Cal released his throat and shook out his _left_ hand, Alec actually grinned. He coughed and sputtered and bloody _grinned_, because he thought – stupidly – that he'd won. That Cal had backed down.

But he was wrong. Oh, so very, _very_ wrong.

Because a mere micro-second later, Cal's right hand balled into a tight, heavy fist, and collided squarely into Alec's nose. _Twice. _The first punch was enough to stun him, but the second one was much harder. Hard enough that both men actually heard the bones _crunch_. Hard enough that blood immediately cast itself onto the nearby wall, and the raw force behind it was enough to send the younger man toppling to the ground as he writhed helplessly in pain.

So Alec fell and bled, while Cal stood and sneered, and somehow they'd drawn an audience: two interns, one accountant, and Loker himself, who was the only one among them – surprisingly enough – who had the presence of mind to actually speak, once Cal made it very obvious that he intended move from punching Alec, to kicking him instead.

"Doctor Lightman," Loker called. _Loudly_.

The words were simultaneously tentative and courageous, because really… how the hell was Loker _supposed_ to sound? It wasn't every day the Lightman Group staff witnessed its founder beating the living tar out of his business partner's husband, right? _No, no_… that certainly wasn't in the employee manual.

And _yes_, Cal heard him; heard the words, and the inflection, and the implication they brought. But he was already mid-kick, and really… if Loker honestly expected him to back off now, then it was going to take something more than two short words to derail his one-track mind.

"Doctor Lightman," he called again. And the sound was louder now, and even more insistent because Loker was standing just an arm's length away and trying looking as neutral as possible, considering the circumstances. "You've already proven your point, alright? I think you should leave," he said calmly. "_Right_ _now_."

Cal knew that Loker was waiting for a verbal response, but try as he might… he simply could _not_ manage to speak. He was positively _raging_ – so overwhelmed with anger that he could hardly even _breathe_, let alone think straight. Let alone form actual, sensible words. His hands were shaking, and his knuckles were already bruised, and apparently there was blood spatter on the carpet, too. He hadn't noticed it until now.

"You should leave now," Loker repeated. "Call a cab… take your car… whatever you want, but I _really think_ you need to leave. Because something tells me that wherever Doctor Foster is, she'd rather not be alone. And for whatever it's worth, don't worry about the mess in here. I'm perfectly capable of taking out the trash."

_Alone_.

Trust that word to spur Cal into action – to shake some sense into his temporarily stalled brain and make it functional again. _Oh_, Loker was _so_ going to get a raise. A big one. And a promotion, just for that 'take out the trash' reference. _Hell_, the guy could've asked to run his own state-of-the-art lab and Cal would've signed the expense checks gladly.

And so, he took one last look down onto the floor where Alec was slumped… saw the blood that pooled past his chin, in the hollow space between the bruises on his throat and the rumpled collar of that old university jumper… and realized that _no_, he wasn't like his father at all. Not now, and not ever. Instead, he was a man who'd fallen head over heels in love with a wonderful woman – and all he wanted was for her to be treated with the respect she deserved.

"You never deserved her, Alec," Cal said in parting. "And maybe I don't either. God knows I'm not perfect, yeah? But see… the difference between us is simple. _I love her_. With my entire heart, and with all that I have to give. It's unconditional. Always has been, and always will be. But _you_, on the other hand, only love _yourself_. You're a selfish, pathetic bastard, and this is exactly what you deserve – to be surrounded by your own filth and your own failure. And if you even so much as _think_ about delaying that divorce, just to get even with me? Then I can promise you this: I _will_ find you. And the next time I have your throat between my hands… I won't stop squeezing until the blue tinge to your skin is _permanent_."


	44. Chapter 44

**A/N: Apologies in the delay for this chapter everyone. Real life has gotten extremely hectic in the last few weeks, so occasional delays might crop up on me from time to time. No worries, though - I absolutely promise to see this one through to the end. As always, massive thanks for the feedback, and to a few specific ones (you know who you are) who are always willing to let me bounce ideas around with you. **

**Just as a reference, I wanted to note that this chapter picks up right where the last one ended. So this is my take on what's happening in Gillian's head while Cal is busy beating the stuffing out of Alec.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_Numb_.

By definition, the word was quite simple: it described someone being deprived of the power to feel or move. It implied that they'd become emotionally unresponsive. Indifferent. _Emotionless_.

And even though it seemed completely wrong to crave that feeling for herself at a time when she was justified in feeling _everything_ (from sorrow, to guilt, to rage and back again), Gillian couldn't help herself. She just couldn't. Because she didn't want to 'feel' anything. She wanted to slip away from reality and drown her sorrows in caffeine and sugar and distance, until she either found a constructive way to deal with her emotions, _or_ learned how to hide from them.

Was it a perfect plan? No, not even close. And so far… she was failing.

_Miserably_.

After dodging one call en route to the coffee shop, then letting cowardice convince her to ignore the second, Gillian just knew it was only a matter of time until her luck ran out and the damn thing rang again – with its sickeningly cheerful ringtone and its bright pink shatterproof case managing to annoy her beyond reason. _Jesus_, she just wanted… she wanted… _well_, that was part of the problem, actually: she couldn't seem to decide 'what' she wanted. Alec's head on a silver platter would've been her first request, but beyond that?

_No_, she hadn't gotten quite that far.

_Alright, fine_ – in an ideal world, what she really wanted was for _Cal_ to come marching through the front door _carrying_ Alec's head on a silver platter, like some sort of modern day knight, with his tattoos and quirky charm in place of traditional armor. But _that_, she knew, was about as likely to happen as Alec himself was to run around willingly confessing his sins to the world. In other words… it was impossible. A fun image, no doubt – but basically impossible.

And Gillian also knew that she was getting ahead of herself. That she was putting far too much stock into a single word she'd left in a single message – one that might not mean _anything_ to _anyone_ but her. Because even under the best case scenario, Cal might not even know where she'd gone. _If_ Loker gave him the message, and _if_ he interpreted the word 'nostalgic' in the same manner she'd intended it, then maybe he'd understand. But, that was only _if_ Zoe really _had_ sent a babysitter, and _if_ Emily was feeling well enough for him to have gone to the office at all. _If, if, if_… oh, she was really starting to hate that word.

Right along with her stupid shatterproof phone.

And then right on cue – literally, as soon as her laughably _un-numb_ brain conjured up the word '_phone'_ – it rang. Loudly. _As in_, loudly enough for several of the other customers to actually turn around and stare at her. Loudly enough to make her wince in embarrassment at the realization that she'd somehow managed to turn the volume _up_, rather than _off_. Loudly enough to make her wish – mightily – that she'd just left the stupid thing in the car.

Her luck, it seemed, was _still_ total shit.

In the back of her mind, Gillian's inner optimist piped up yet again. It had abandoned Hail Mary passes in favor of practicality, trying to reason that the caller certainly _could_ have been Cal, and that she really ought to answer it. But it took mere microseconds for _impracticality_ and impulsivity overshadow that optimistic voice, because for some crazy reason… every stray thought and impulse and ounce of aggression-_slash_-despair-_slash_-heartbreak-_slash_-misery in her whole body began to see _that phone_ as the enemy.

That's right: in her mind, it represented something bigger than just a phone. Instead, she saw it as a direct, tangible connection to everything (and everyone) she wanted to avoid: from Alec Foster, Regina Cross, and Bill Jacobs… to rejection, heartache, guilt, and regret. All the emotions that she wasn't ready to feel could be accessed through that phone – good, bad, and everything in between.

Was it sensible? No, not really. It was immature, and shortsighted, and she _knew_ that. Of course she did. She also knew that running away from her problems wouldn't solve them, but as she sat there – surrounded by strangers, and seeking comfort from memories of the early days of her partnership with Cal (sugary, super-sized chocolate cake included, of course) – Gillian realized that 'running' (_figuratively speaking_) was one of the only choices she could still make.

She could _choose_ to answer her phone… _or not_.

She could _choose_ to throw it… or not.

_Hell_, she could even _choose_ to dunk it in a steaming mug of hot chocolate if she wanted, and no one could rightfully judge her for it. No one. Because it was her phone, dammit, and she could use it anyway she wanted – sane or otherwise.

Stupid pink shatterproof case. Where was a cinderblock wall when she needed one?

* * *

The fourth call came just after she'd gotten her second cup of coffee – just as a woman in her mid-thirties entered with a newborn. She was the perfect image of the perfect mother – relaxed, and confident, and oh-so natural that it made Gillian's chest immediately constrict with envy.

So she sat there, trying _not_ to react to anything as her phone rang… as people yet again turned to stare, because she _still_ hadn't turned the ringer volume down… and maybe it was the raw ache of pain that shot across her sternum at the sound of the baby's soft, distant cry, or the sensation that her heart was trying to _crawl_ its way out of her body, just to find some sort of balm. But for whatever reason, _this time_… she was distracted enough to answer on the third ring.

Maybe – just maybe – it was progress.

Frowning into her mug, she swirled extra sugar through the steaming liquid and cradled the phone between her shoulder and her ear. "What?"

That was the only greeting she could manage; just a single, solitary syllable – and even that much was a struggle. Words seemed too _formal_, somehow. Too predictable. Especially when she felt like… _this_. Like her entire world had been turned upside down and shaken.

And besides, every single instinct in Gillian's body told her that the caller was probably Alec. That fifteen (scratch that:_ eighteen_) calls hadn't been enough for him, and now – on call number nineteen, when she'd finally been distracted (_or defeated_) enough to answer, he'd get his way. He'd try to tell her how none of this was really his fault… how he'd been broken down and weakened by the pull of cocaine… how he hadn't meant to say anything to Ms. Cross… and how awful he felt about the whole thing. And when all of that was finished, he'd try to tell her how sorry he was. That he was a bastard, and that she had every right to hate him for crushing her dream. Trouble was, she wasn't in the mood for conversation. And she didn't know if she had the strength to listen to all of his crap without sounding like an absolute witch.

Because a part of her – a very real, very legitimate part of her – wanted Alec to hurt just as badly as she did. She wanted him to suffer _physically_, parallel to the way that she was suffering _emotionally_. And if she were being totally honest with herself, Gillian would admit that she wanted someone (preferably Cal) to come along and beat the living tar out of Alec, _in front of an audience_, just because he deserved it. Pain, humiliation, and utter disgrace – what a fitting end for a man who'd spent his whole career focused on image.

That being said, though, Gillian knew that a verbal fight was futile. History told her that neither of them would 'win,' anyway, and drawing her soon-to-be-ex-husband into a war of words didn't seem like it would solve anything. It would not change the birth mother's mind, or erase his addiction. It wouldn't absolve _her_ tolerance, or undo years of his bad decisions, or fix anything at all that led them _here_: to a day filled with nineteen phone calls, one broken heart, an obliterated dream, and an infinite amount of 'what-ifs.'

No, she wanted to move forward – not back. To dust herself off, take responsibility for the choices that _she_ had made (passivity and tolerance being chief among them), and find a way to heal. To focus on her future, instead of her past. And so finally, when she'd grown to hate the silence between them even more than she'd expected, Gillian sighed heavily and spoke the first words that popped into her head. "Listen, Alec, I don't want to…"

And that was as far as she got before she realized her mistake. The second half of her sentence simply died in her head, because Alec Foster did 'passive' about as well as Zoe Landau did, and Gillian knew that he would've jumped in with both feet as soon as the first word left her lips. The sudden clarity made her want to cry – big, fat, _heavy_ tears. Not out of sadness, though. Out of relief. Sheer, overwhelming _relief_.

"_Cal_?"

That single, timid word left Gillian's lips with the weight of a thousand. And at the sound of it, she dropped her head into her hands in a confusing mix of relief, embarrassment, and shame. He hadn't even spoken to her yet, but in that moment all she could think – _all _she could think – was that she wasn't ready to have this particular conversation yet. Not even with him. No, she didn't want _anyone_ to hear her like this; pathetic, and sunken, and sad, and feeling completely out of control when – by all rights – she really ought to have a say in something.

_Shouldn't she?_

It was _her_ life, after all.

And it was _her_ dream.

Alec Foster didn't deserve the power to shatter both of them.

Through the receiver, Gillian heard Cal give a broken sigh that made her shiver. "I stopped by the office to pick you up," he said softly. "For lunch, yeah? And… Alec was there."

_Shit_.

In a matter of a few short sentences, Gillian felt her stomach drop all the way down to her shoes as her imagination began to do a play-by-play of what _that_ conversation must've been like. _Or rather_, what it would've been like for _Cal_ to be on the receiving end of that conversation (one sided as it had probably been) and stoically listen to Alec whine while he tried to make _himself_ out to be the innocent victim.

_Oh_, that was all-too often his favorite role to play.

Pathetic as it was, in Alec's mind, _he_ was never at fault. Meaning that he'd never _meant_ to have those affairs – they'd "just happened." _Oops_. He'd never _meant_ to become an addict, either – someone else dangled that particular carrot, first. _Oops again_. Yes, Alec probably threw himself a full-fledged pity party right there in the middle of the Lightman Group lobby, and invited Cal to be the guest of honor.

_What a horrible mess._

Gillian heard Cal give another broken sigh, and this time the sound actually startled her into action. It shook her just enough to make her realize that the tightrope she was walking – the one that hovered a thousand feet off the ground, bridging the cliffs between self-disgust and self-pity – was a dangerous path, indeed. And before either one of them could say another word, she dropped her spoon onto her saucer with a deliberate clang, straightened her posture, and ran one shaky hand through her hair.

It was as if she was bracing herself for something. Good, bad, or indifferent… she wasn't quite sure yet. All Gillian knew was that Cal Lightman was likely the only one who could ever make her feel 'whole' again. And she was there, and he was not, and that sudden realization made her feel very, _very_ alone.

Funny how everything suddenly felt so… familiar. Swap the coffee shop for a bar… trade Alec for Zoe… and it was _that night_, all over again. The night she'd been on the receiving end of Zoe's tirade, then gone off to find Cal drowning his troubles in Scotch and self-loathing before literally dragging him out the door. It was like Deja-vu, but in reverse. So _she_ startled while _Cal_ sighed, and then it was as though he found a way to look inside her head and say exactly what she needed to hear.

"Whatever happens next, Gillian," he started. And trust her, _that_ single word – the sound of her _full name_ (not Foster, or Gill, or even love) – spoken in _that way_, by the one person she trusted more than anyone else in the entire world? Cliché though she knew it sounded, it was as though she heard his heart speaking right to hers. Like they were connected – two people, two voices, two syllables, one love.

"Whatever happens next," he repeated, "You and I… we're in this thing together. Good, bad, thick, thin – all of it. I'm right here, love. _Right here_. And I'm not going anywhere."

And really, what could she say to that? It was typical Cal. The man wasn't always big on words, but leave it to him to pick the perfect ones at the perfect time, to help guide her down from the thousand-foot-high tightrope, and begin to walk towards stable ground again.

Gillian had spent years compartmentalizing (_read: hiding_) her feelings – breaking them down into safe, manageable chunks that fit the 'role' she was supposed to play, and fit well within the boundaries of any "line" she'd need to draw. Therapist, colleague, wife, friend… she'd worn those masks so often that they sometimes became a second skin. But now that every emotion had been yanked to the surface – everything from despair, to rage, to guilt and back again – she felt unbalanced. Dizzy. And even though she knew, _with certainty_, that Cal would be right beside her, Gillian had no idea how she'd ever manage _not_ to look back. How she'd ever be able to just give up on her dream of parenthood because an asshole like Alec Foster had ruined it for her.

Through the receiver, Cal's breath was whisper quiet against her ear. She heard three measured counts – in through his nose, and out through his mouth – and she began to wonder if he was doing it on purpose. If he was trying to out-wait her, or if it was all part of a bigger plan; something spur of the moment that he'd concocted just to make her feel better. Like a con, but without the spitefulness and the sporting fun.

And just when she was about to mention it, when words that she hadn't yet finalized began to dance tentatively on the tip of her tongue, Cal spoke again. "I can hear you thinking," he said softly. "But I think we both might feel better if you tried talking to me instead."

Now _that_ was funny. That was _very_ funny. Because if memory served, that line was exactly what _she_ had said to _him_ on the night his marriage imploded. Verbatim. Syntax… inflection… the whole nine yards. How in the world he'd remembered it, she had no idea – _no_, he'd been at least two drinks down by that point in the evening, and she wouldn't have pegged those words as being the kind that would've stuck with him, even if he'd heard them when he was completely sober.

And so without thinking, she snorted right into his ear. It was a silly sound; a cross between a chuckle and a chortle that she _knew_ sounded completely ridiculous, _but_… somehow it managed to crack the proverbial weight that had been lodged in the center of her chest since she walked _out_ of Regina's office. Yes, it was definitely progress. At any other time Gillian probably would've been embarrassed, but in _that moment_, the sheer release made her feel better.

"Ridiculous" seemed to fit the situation quite well, actually.

A beat later, when the sound of Cal's breath in her ear had grown solid and steady, and she could practically _hear_ the smile behind its cadence, Gillian finally found her voice. "I miss you," she said honestly. "_So much_."

There was no explanation, no hesitation, no mask, and no line. Nothing but _her_ heart speaking directly to _his_. And those five words tumbled out easily – as if they'd been there all along, just waiting for her to have the strength to release them.

She felt no pressure… knew no doubt. Just truth.

"Sit tight, love," he answered immediately. "I'm already on my way."

* * *

**A/N: Stay tuned, guys... our favorite couple is reunited in the next chapter. :)**


	45. Chapter 45

**A/N: As promised, this chapter is full of Cal & Gillian goodness. There's a slight language warning, but no f-bombs this time. Thanks for reading! **

**(And special thanks to the friend / fellow Roth addict who served as a bit of a beta reader for the first half of this chapter. Much appreciated!)**

* * *

Cal tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and squeezed the steering wheel in a tight grip. It was a move he instantly regretted, though, as the first twinges of dull pain began to flare throughout his right hand and travel up the length of his forearm. A split-second glance confirmed his suspicions: the skin was already bruised, and the knuckles were stiff and swollen from their brutal and well-deserved collision with Alec Foster's nose. Twice. And even though it wasn't the first time in Cal's life that he'd crushed part of a man's face… it was certainly the most satisfying.

Funny how a day that had begun with such promise – with visions of a lunch date and a few stolen kisses – had led him here. To _this_: a spur-of-the-moment interrogation with Gillian's soon-to-be-ex… one broken nose and blood spatter in his office… a verbal declaration that he was head over heels in love with his best friend, made in front of an audience that _did_ include his staff members but _did not include her_… one very legitimate death threat (permanently blue-tinged skin, indeed)… and – last but certainly not least – a traffic jam of epic proportions. His luck, it seemed, was total shit.

Trust him, as soon as those words – "his luck" – wafted through his brain, Cal wanted to punch _himself_, because clearly… he was an idiot. A single minded, testosterone fueled idiot, who really needed to remember that "his luck" wasn't even on the radar of important things. Not now. No, it was Gillian who'd spent an untold number of years living with a heartless, adulterous bastard (who just-so-happened to be addicted to cocaine). And in between bouts of lies, self-promotion, and shoving his pathetic tackle into the bodies of equally pathetic other women, the wanker had chosen to send her through hell each month, as she singlehandedly shouldered the blame for their infertility.

Cal fumed. He could feel lingering adrenaline throughout his system, which worsened his ever-present need to fidget. And the longer he was trapped there, stuck in traffic like an angry sitting duck, the more his imagination began to work overtime. He replayed every question and every answer… let the smug insensitivity he'd heard in Alec's voice burn into his brain all over again, until he decided that two punches to the nose wasn't nearly enough punishment, and that when – or _if_ – he finally got out of his bloody car, then he just might go track the bastard down and give him a proper kicking, too.

And then just a few seconds later, Cal's overactive mind broke off on yet another tangent, as he decided that men like Alec deserved an entirely new title because "bastard" just wasn't cutting it anymore. Not even close. That word failed miserably, right along with '_plonker'_ and '_wanker'_ and '_tosser_,' and all the other labels that had always been used. No, the man truly deserved something… bigger. Something with the recognizable abhorrence of an old standby like "bastard," but with a colorful punch of other descriptors thrown in for good measure. Perhaps "vile" or "pathetic" or "rabid-faced." Something _creative_. Something like…

Pathetically vile, rabid-faced bastard-weasel.

_Yes_.

Yes, as a matter of fact, _that phrase_ summed up men like Alec Foster quite nicely. Bastard-weasel. It sounded… _well_, it sounded as though there could quite legitimately be some rogue, sparsely populated creature actually _called_ a bastard-weasel, and if ever someone got curious enough to look for it in a bloody science journal or National Geographic or some such place, then they'd find Alec's picture right there among the description, staring back at them as if he were – appropriately enough – the patron saint of all bastard-weasels who'd ever dragged their bellies through the dirt.

_Bloody hell._

Clearly – _clearly_ – Cal had already reached 'overload' status on his daily (and perhaps_ yearly_) caffeine intake. He needed decaf, pronto, and perhaps a mild sedative to go along with it, because his imagination had now gone completely off the rails and was bordering on hyperactive mania, with a side of ill-timed humor-_slash_-lingering rage thrown in just for fun. It felt like taking an erratic ride through the mind of a man stuck between three modes: being in love with Gillian, defending her honor to someone else who was _supposed_ _to have_ loved her, and wondering how in the world he'd ever help her move forward after her dream of motherhood had, almost literally, been ripped right out of her grasp.

His hand ached, and his head was spinning, and the bloody traffic would not cooperate, and…

"_I miss you."_

From out of nowhere – just as Cal was really starting to question his own sanity – he was reminded of the sound of Gillian's voice in his ear mere moments earlier, and the way his heart had fluttered up into his throat when she'd spoken those words. She missed him. _She_ missed _him_.

Simple as that.

And suddenly he could _breathe_ again. He took long, slow, deliberate pulses that pulled air in through his nose, and forced it out through his mouth. Seconds later, everything began to make sense once again. The traffic jam didn't seem so infuriatingly horrible. The ache in his hand began to ease. His head _was_ still spinning a bit, but really… at the root of all of the messy, tumultuous, unpredictable crap he and Gillian had recently been dealt, he saw one very simple truth: _she_ missed _him_, and _he_ missed _her_, and _that_ was all that mattered.

Words, plans, interruptions, heartbreak, ex-spouses, and challenges be damned. Because in the end, all Cal really needed was Gillian. _Just Gillian_.

Then, now, _always_.

* * *

The building looked exactly as he remembered it: small and nondescript, with a large pastry display in the front window, and well-worn signs for both coffee _and_ tea facing the highway. He also remembered that the former had caught Gillian's eye instantly, _and_ that he'd quickly fallen victim to the smile he _now _knew came straight from her love of all things chocolate. Bloody captivating, it was.

The _smile_.

Not the chocolate.

Cal parked his car in the space next to Gillian's and quickly headed inside. He had no idea what to say, how to say it, or even the slightest guess as to how she'd react to his presence: if he should be the supportive friend he'd always been, or… more. If those lines they'd begun to cross just twenty four hours earlier _now_ entitled him to comfort her physically as well, or if he'd need to restrain himself: to bring his mask temporarily back in place, and try to give her enough space to heal from all the day's revelations.

But as soon as he saw her – sitting at 'their' booth, far back in the corner – Cal knew, without question, that he didn't have a prayer of hiding his true emotions anymore. Good, bad, and everything in between, they were right there at the surface, and there wasn't a thick enough mask in the entire _world_ that would've disguised them.

The coffee shop wasn't overly crowded. There were handfuls of people sprinkled at tables throughout the large room – a few college students, several senior citizens, and one young mother with a newborn, who was sitting far too close to Gillian for his liking. And for a moment – just a moment, as Cal's eyes locked with Gillian's and he took in every ounce of pain that was visible behind their bright, beautiful color – he felt extremely self-conscious. Like the roles had flipped, and now _they_ were the ones on display; like those people could take one look at Gillian's tearstained cheeks and his busted hand, and _poof_! Suddenly the scientists would become the test subjects. The ones having their facial muscles analyzed, and their breathing monitored, and their personal space invaded by strangers.

But then Gillian gave him the softest, most genuine, _blink-and-he-would've-missed-it_ smile… and he was gone. In the span of a single breath, Cal decided that he didn't bloody _care_ about an audience, or personal space, or anything at all, save for the overwhelming desire to comfort her.

Trust him, he didn't actually remember walking toward her. Had no recollection of placing one foot in front of the other or voluntarily moving his body _away_ from the curious stares of the coffee shop patrons and _toward_ the woman he loved, but suddenly… there she was. Right in front of him. _She_ sat while _he_ stood, and he worried about stupid things like whether he should pull her up into his arms for a hug, or wait it out and let her make the first move.

That's all the farther he got, though, because in the next breath Gillian was tugging on his hand (_the right one_), and pulling him down onto the bench beside her. It hurt and was wonderful, all at the same time. And Cal decided that he'd quite happily let her cut that hand clean _off_, if it meant they could finally move forward. Minor details, really. He'd adjust to left-handed life eventually.

"Gillian, I…"

_I love you._

_I'm so sorry this happened to you. _

_I can't think of anywhere else in the world I'd rather be than here in this little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop with you._

All three of those statements tried to come out of Cal's mouth simultaneously, but Gillian – true to form, and far better with words than he could ever hope to be – beat him to the finish line. And while her name ghosted past his lips and hung there in the shallow space between them, she seized the moment and squeezed his hand in hers. His _right_ hand. She still hadn't let it go.

"How's Emily?" she asked.

Of all the things Cal had expected Gillian to say, _those_ two words weren't even on his radar. In fact, they weren't even in the same _vicinity_ with his radar. No, he'd expected sadness, anger, tears – maybe even bitterness. God knows he hadn't been the most pleasant bloke the night she'd found him in that bar, after all. But _that_ simple question stumped him. Made every conscious thought fly right out of his head in surprise, because it was about as far from anger or bitterness as she could've gotten. Instead, it was selfless, and lovely, and caring, and…

_Bloody hell_, of course he should've expected it. Because selfless, lovely, and caring were _perfectly_ Gillian. Always had been, and always would be. Those were qualities she always strove to maintain, no matter the circumstances.

It was a huge part of what made her such a fantastic _friend_.

It was a huge part of what made her such a fantastic _therapist_.

And – last but certainly not least – it was one of the very first things about her with which he'd fallen in love.

'_In love.'_

At the precise moment that _those words_ flickered through his head, Cal saw Gillian's reaction shift. Her eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly higher, and her mouth fell open slightly – as though she was going to say something, but bit the words back at the last possible second. Then she turned her body toward his, in a way that wasn't sexual at all, but was somehow so much more… _intimate_… than anything he could've anticipated. The slightest glimmer of happiness crossed her face, lingering long enough for _his face_ to match it automatically, and then she tightened her grip on his hand.

The right one. Again.

That passing thought he'd had, about not being able to find a thick enough mask in the entire _world_ to hide his true emotions now? It was definitely not an understatement. Because he'd walked through the front door less than three minutes earlier, and Gillian had already seen… _everything_. Love… adoration… respect… friendship… she'd seen it all. And unfortunately, that list also included pain. His hand was bloody _killing_ him.

One of Cal's favorite expressions had always been, 'in for a penny, in for a pound.' Most of the time, he used it to justify something _physical_ (as in, '_I've already broken the bastard-weasel's nose. In for a penny, in for a pound. Might as well kick him in the gut, too_…') or something _stupid_ (as in, '_I'm already on my second scotch – might as well order a third and throw my phone against the wall…_'). It was usually a buffer. A way to sow his own excuses, and turn them into something acceptable.

But this time, as an entire lifetime's worth of his own science came flooding to the forefront of his mind, Cal wasn't interested in excuses. He didn't care about justifying anything, and he certainly didn't want to do something stupid. No, _this time_, he'd sit right there and take his own advice in an entirely different direction.

In for a penny, in for a pound: meaning that Gillian had already seen his truth. She _knew_ it was love, and adoration, and pain behind his eyes. And _this time_, he wouldn't make excuses. Wouldn't hide behind euphemisms, or self-imposed rules, or even half-truths. Because that long list of interruptions they'd had, just twenty four hours earlier? It was already starting to crumble.

So, he took a deep breath, smoothed his thumb (the right one) over the back of her hand, and angled his body even further toward hers. "Emily's fine," he answered. "Her fever went down and her cheekiness came up, so I'd say that's a good sign, yeah? And as a matter of fact, she asked me to give you something."

He was nervous.

Why in bloody hell was he _nervous_?

This was Gillian, for God's sake. _His_ Gillian. She'd been his best friend for years. She was his partner, and his anchor, and he'd already come _very_ close to actually making love to her (_twice_). And yet there he sat, nervous as ever, with a clammy _left_ hand and a mangled _right_ one. With his heart on his sleeve, and reality (in the form of a roomful of strangers, Gillian's beautiful, tearstained face, and a half-eaten slice of chocolate cake that was _still_ large enough to kill a bloody horse) staring him straight in the eye.

Come to think of it… maybe that's why he was nervous. Reality. _As in_, everything between them was finally _real_. No more hypotheticals. No more "what ifs" or "stolen moments" or "maybes." No more schooling themselves by someone else's rules. In other words, Cal Lightman knew that he was about to be in for a pound in a _serious_ way.

Aside from the reaction he'd already seen, though, Gillian looked as calm as possible. "Give me what?" she asked.

A hug. The short answer was, '_Emily asked me to give you a hug_.' But now that the moment was upon him, it seemed that words were beyond his capability. Which was bloody stupid, of course, because he had hugged Gillian Foster no fewer than five thousand times since the day they'd met, and he'd bloody loved every single one of them. Still though, when he actually opened his mouth to speak, they were absent. Bloody _words_. Such tricky little buggers.

To her credit, Gillian began to get suspicious. Partly because his eyebrows were frozen in an odd, half-raised way, and his mouth had dropped open, and his bloody knee would not hold still, and… and…

Jesus, that was at least _five_. Five mental uses of the word 'bloody' in less than thirty seconds. And really, it was the night at that bar all over again – right down to his word choices.

"'_S'funny, is it?"_ he remembered, replaying the tail end of that night's conversation in his head as though it had happened hours, rather than months, earlier. _"My whole night has turned into a shit storm of bloody… _whatever_… and you sit here having a good laugh about it? A mean one, you are. Here's a good idea, yeah? I'll lay down right here and you can just start kicking, alright? Hard as you want, right in the bloody balls."_

Back then, he'd been nervous; had felt the first twinges of what he _now_ knew was love begin to waft their way to the surface. He'd felt the warmth in his chest, and the renewed life in his limbs that came just from being so… natural… with her. So unguarded. Bloody hell, he'd felt it through three scotches and an imploded marriage, heaps of denial, and one cellphone throwing temper tantrum.

But this time… he felt it fully. It wasn't dulled by alcohol, or diffused in Zoe's wake. And there was definitely no denial. It was love. Then, now, _always_.

In his periphery, Cal saw Gillian's expression begin to shift again. Partly because he still hadn't managed to answer her simple question, and partly because she'd already deduced that whatever he was about to give her was really bloody important.

"Almost everything about this day has been total shit," she said candidly. Then she gave his hand a quick squeeze again (_still the right one_) and cocked her head sideways, as if to study his face from a different angle. "So please, if you're about to give me bad news, or pass along something from Emily that will make me want to cry again, then maybe you should just wait until…"

Words might not have been his forte, but actions certainly were. And as Gillian's half-finished sentence was swallowed by her tiny gasp of surprise, Cal effortlessly wound both arms around her shoulders and pulled her into a tight hug. And really, if ever he got the chance to do it over again, he _probably_ would have waited until they were standing, so that he could get closer to her – from shoulder to hip, in that full body way that had always been their style. But he'd _felt_, rather than _thought_, and it hadn't occurred to him that the booth, or the dishes, or the half-eaten cake might get in the way. It hadn't occurred to him that other people might turn to look at them, either, or that they might not understand that what looked like just a casual hug was, for Cal, _anything_ but casual.

Because after his right palm ghosted across her shoulder blades and ran upward, to sweep against the tendrils of her soft hair… after his left arm snaked down to rest low on the curve of her spine in a possessive, yet completely reassuring way… he pulled back and _voluntarily_ left his emotions completely exposed.

Love, pain, and fear. Cal was tired of hiding. He let her see everything.

"Just a hug, Gillian," he said quietly – trying _not_ to downplay what he'd just done, but finding his words naturally veered in that direction. It was an ingrained habit, of course; one he hoped she'd be patient enough to help him break. "Emily asked me to give you a hug. Said for me to tell you that she loves you, yeah?"

'_She loves you.'_

Cal sighed. Bloody hell, that was very, _very_ close to the other thing he desperately wanted to tell her. Change the first word to "I" and drop an "s" off the second, and voila – there it was. Baby steps, though. They had a lifetime to take the journey; no point rushing it quite yet.

With deliberate slowness, Gillian grinned. Of course she'd seen right through him.

"Well then," she answered. "Tell Emily that I love her, too."

And trust him, there was a very brief, very scarily wonderful moment when Cal could've _sworn_ that his heart had actually stopped. When he was certain that nothing in the world could break whatever impromptu spell he'd fallen under since joining her at that booth. But then he saw past her beautiful grin… past the sparkle in her eyes, and the quirk of her brow… and the redness on her face caught his attention once more. He hated to know she'd been in pain – was _still_ in pain – and hated it even worse, now that he knew the stupid bastard-weasel had done it _deliberately_. Month after month… woman after woman… sin, repent, repeat. For years.

_Years_.

On instinct, his hand (still the right one) squeezed hers, and there was no hiding the flare of pain that shot across his face as the joints yelled in protest. Gillian saw it instantly; she _knew_ that he was in pain, but had no idea _why_. So she brought her free hand up to cup his jaw as the other squeezed back against his fingers reflexively. Which, of course, made the flare deepen… which made her squeeze harder… and over, and over again until she finally looked down to the place in her lap where her left hand was entwined with his right.

And that's when she saw it.

"Cal!" she exclaimed, as gentle fingertips ghosted across the bruises and swollen flesh. Her remark was half admonishment and half sympathy, and he knew what _else_ she was going to say even before she actually said it. He could just… _tell_.

"You hit a wall again, didn't you?"

Truth be told, it wasn't a bad assumption at all – especially since it had only been a few months since that very same fist put a hole in his living room wall. But this time, she was so far off the mark this time that it was downright laughable. And so… he did.

He _laughed_.

That's right: he laughed, and Gillian frowned, and it all just seemed so perfectly "them" – with the bad timing, and social awkwardness… with bastard-weasel-ex-husbands, and blood spatter in his office, and a custody suit that suddenly had a light at the end of its tunnel. So Cal had to admit that bad timing or not… laughter felt _good_.

It felt therapeutic.

Gillian quirked a new smile, but she did not laugh. In fact, she very _pointedly_ did not laugh. "Care to share with the rest of the class?" she said teasingly. "Or should I just guess?"

Her question was rhetorical, and Cal knew that. In fact, he was just about to crack a joke of his own, when she actually took things one step _further_ and managed to cure his giggles pretty quickly.

"Cal Lightman," she started. And _oh_, he'd always had the strangest reaction when she said his full name in _that_ tone – like she meant it to sound half scolding and half flirting – and it sent a tiny thrill up the back of his neck. Even now. When the timing was admittedly awful.

True to form, though, Gillian didn't miss a beat. "If you're actually about to sit there and tell me that you did _this_ kind of damage to your hand by using it to punch, injure, or maim _any part_ of Alec's body, then I have to say… I just might marry you."

_In for a pound, indeed._

On any other day, at any other time, and with any other person, Cal would've easily been able to tell whether or not the words he'd just heard were, in fact, truthful. But with Gillian? Now? _There_? His eyes were telling him one thing _(that she was at least half serious)_, and his gut was telling him another (_that he was an idiot for even _thinking_ she was half serious_), and the part of him that was stuck in the middle – the part that _really_ wanted to say 'sod the awful timing and just kiss her already' – decided that maybe, just maybe, this was an excellent opportunity to practice being honest with his feelings.

So, he compromised.

_With himself._

Cal took her right hand in his left, raised it to his lips, and pressed a gentle kiss against her soft skin. And then he grinned, from ear to ear.

"His nose is a goner, love," he said smugly. "And perhaps a cheekbone, too. I _did_ hear the bones break, trouble is… I'm not entirely sure which ones they _were_. But what I _can_ tell you, though, is that the hard headed bastard bled all over my office floor. _And_, we're giving Loker a raise. A big one. My hand will heal soon enough – I'm not worried about it, yeah? But even if it doesn't – even if I spend the rest of my life walking around with it shaped like some sort of swollen, hook-claw hybrid, trust me, Gill: it was totally worth it."

* * *

**A/N: Up next: That giant list of "interruptions" Cal mentioned during their interlude in Gillian's office? No rings, phones, tv, email, etc.? At least one of those things will be taken care of. Permanently. Thanks for reading!**


End file.
